


Landlocked in Light

by readymachine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Christmas, F/F, F/M, Mild Angst, Mild Fluff, Punk band, Slow Burn, Thanksgiving, holiday appropriate, mentions of f/f, sometimes it's nice to not write Stiles crying?, soulmate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:44:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4531194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readymachine/pseuds/readymachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“To recap: you meet your soulmate—the person who you are literally destined to spend the rest of your life with—and you just let her go without even giving her your name or anything?”</p><p>Or: The Stydia Soulmate AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October

**October.**

“You know, there’s this app that tracks sharks.”

It takes Lydia a moment to realize that the stranger who’s plopped himself into the seat next to her has broken the cardinal rule of travelling on public transportation by speaking to her. She takes a moment to place her bright pink highlighter between the pages of her Advanced Physics book before she turns to look at him directly. He’s fairly attractive, with whiskey-colored eyes framed by dark eyelashes set above a wide, upturned nose. Dark spikes of hair shoot out from underneath his dull orange bomber cap, almost hidden by the gray wool. He wears a navy peacoat, his hands shoved deep inside of the pockets. A small smile plays across his lips as he stares at her from the small expanse of space between them.

“Why would I want to track fish?” She asks, crossing her legs at the knee primly and pushing her strawberry-blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Well, you wouldn’t,” He responds immediately. “But sharks aren’t fish, see, they’re in the Chondrichthyes class, not the Osteichthyes class. Sharks have skeletons made of cartilage instead of bones.”

Lydia narrows her eyes at his correction.

“Chondrichthyes and Osteichthyes are _both_ fish. Sharks are _cartilaginous fish_ instead of bony fish like Osteichthyes but they’re still fish.”

His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to respond before he clamps it down, pursing his lips.

“Well, someone obviously lied to me when they told me about sharks,” He says, a sheepish smile spreading across his face.

Lydia thinks about turning back to her book and ignoring this guy and his sharks, but his stupid smile is contagious and she finds herself smiling back despite herself.

“Okay,” She laughs. “So I’ll ask again: why would I want to track fish?”

“They give them names,” The stranger responds with a loose shrug. “You get to see when Katherine swims from Florida to New York or when Phillip breaks away from a big group to swim around South America for no reason. You get attached. It’s like a soap opera, but with sharks.”

Lydia breathes out a laugh as his eyes leisurely scan her face.

“So, what made you want to tell me about your crazy Chondrichthyes soap opera?” She asks after a moment of comfortable silence. The train begins to slow down with a squeal of brakes, jostling the two together. As their shoulders knock into each other, Lydia feels a sudden burst of heat spread across the space directly underneath the crest of her right cheekbone.

“Do you believe in fate?” The stranger asks, getting to his feet as the train comes to a halt. Lydia has lifted a hand to her face, the pads of her fingers tracing the pattern of warmth across her face. She looks up at him, confused, as his pulls his hand out of his pocket to show her the pattern of a glowing golden cog set in the center of his palm—the same cog that Lydia has painted across her cheek. Her jaw drops open in realization as her _soulmate_ walks backwards out of the train, his smile wide across his face.

“Wait!” Lydia manages to shout as she stands, her book thumping to the ground as she lurches for the closing doors. She arrives too late; the doors slide shut in her face. She stands dumbly at the door as she looks out at the man with the challenge in his eyes on the other side of the glass. The train jerks forward. Her soulmate winks at her. The train gains speed and takes off. She watches him standing on the platform, his hands in his pockets and that damn crooked smile plastered on his face, until the train rounds a corner and she loses sight of him. She turns back to her seat and retrieves her book from the floor. With a frown, she realizes her highlighter has gotten lost somewhere in the dirty, sticky space underneath the plastic seats. Lydia wrinkles her nose and decides to cut her loss. She wouldn’t have been able to focus on physics anyway.

\- - -  
  
“You did _what_?”

“I asked her if she believed in fate and moonwalked out of the train. Jeez, Scotty, weren’t you listening?”

Stiles digs out a substantial spoonful of ice cream from the carton in front of him and puts the whole thing in his mouth at once, staring across the kitchen island at his roommate with what he’s hoping is an innocent look across his face.

“So,” Scott sighs, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice. “To recap: you meet your soulmate—the person who you are _literally_ _destined to spend the rest of your life with_ —and you just let her go without even giving her your name or anything?”

Stiles grins around the spoon in his mouth and nods proudly. Scott frowns and pulls the carton of ice cream out of Stiles’s grasp, eliciting a muffled cry of surprise. Stiles wrenches the utensil from between his lips with a soft _pop_.

“I wasn’t done with that!” He whines while Scott puts the carton back into their crowded freezer.

“You don’t deserve ice cream,” Scott replies. “I can’t _believe_ you did that except I can because you’re an _idiot_.”

“C’mon, man, think about it: it’s better my way. Now we’ll know for _sure_ that it’s fate.”

“Because the Marks aren’t proof enough that it’s fate?”

Scott crosses his arms over his chest with a raised eyebrow and leans backwards against the fridge. Stiles shrugs noncommittally, mirroring Scott’s position from the stool he’s seated in. Scott just shakes his head, his dark brown curls bouncing across his forehead.

“Look, dude, you were lucky enough to find your soulmate,” Scott says, the edge of his thumb brushing the faded arrowhead-shaped Mark on his tan bicep set right below the two bars he’d gotten tattooed around his arm on his 18th birthday. “Not everyone gets that.”

Stiles deflates ever-so-slightly. Scott had always loved his Mark ever since they were kids. He would talk to Stiles for hours about his soulmate as they played video games in Stiles’s messy room: what kind of person he thought they must be, when and how they would finally meet, how their lives would be when they finally met each other. Scott knew with absolute certainly that he wouldn’t be _truly_ happy until he found his match. It was a Saturday afternoon in November when the mark suddenly drained itself of its black color, fading into a raw pink that would fade further over the years into a dull scar. Whoever Scott’s soulmate had been, Scott would never know what happened.

“Look,” Stiles puffs out, hunching forward and focusing his gaze on the spoon he’s turning over in his hands. “I know the legends and I know that when we find the person who we’re ‘meant’ to be with the Marks will tell us—“

“Which yours _did_ by the way, or did you not notice that it had turned gold?”

“— _but_ I just can’t buy it, man. Life isn’t one of those stupid movie scenes where two people see each other from across a crowded room and they’ve got the same Mark and _bam_ they’re together forever after that. If I’m really _meant_ to be with this girl like you say, we’ll find each other again and we’ll figure it out from there.”

Stiles finally looks up at Scott from underneath the fringe of his lashes and leans back in his chair. Scott is still for a moment as he considers what Stiles has said. After a pause, he audibly sighs and drops his hands to his sides.

“I still think you’re an idiot,” Scott says, shaking his head with a lopsided grin. “I bet you pissed her off so badly by not giving her your name that she won’t talk to you again, even if she _does_ find you.”

Stiles smiles wide, relaxing.

“Hey, if we’re meant for each other, she’ll find some way past it.”

Scott crosses through the kitchen into the attached living room, grabbing his coat from the back of the couch and throwing Stiles his bomber cap. Stiles tries to catch it, but miscalculates and watches it soar right past his outstretched fingers with a swear.

“Whatever, dude,” Scott laughs as Stiles hops down from the stool to collect his hat. “Grab your stuff, we’ve got practice in an hour and I don’t want to have to explain to Derek why we’re late.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but quickly jams his hat onto his head and follows Scott through the front door. He didn’t feel like being on the receiving end of a Derek Hale Death Glare **™** today.

“By the way, sharks are _totally_ fish,” Stiles says to Scott as he closes the door behind him.

\- - -  
  
Lydia _hated_ having her Mark on her face. Her entire life, strangers in the street with golden Marks would give her pitying looks as they passed, some even stopping her to assure her that she would meet her soulmate one day if she just kept her chin up and held onto hope.

Lydia thought it was stupid.

She didn’t believe in this concept of _true love_ that had taken over the thoughts of everyone around her. The girls in her classes used to sigh about how their lives would not really start until their soulmates came into their lives and finally made them _whole_. Lydia would have no part of that. She was _not_ an incomplete person who needed the love of another to become “whole”—she was _already_ a whole person. Besides, it wasn’t like everyone got to meet their soulmate. Her parents hadn’t been soulmates (though, to be fair, their relationship was tumultuous at best and had ended during Lydia’s freshman year of high school) and more and more people were being born without Marks.

By middle school, she had resorted to using concealer to cover it up to prevent the sympathetic looks and unwanted supportive hands that insisted on touching her shoulders or forearms every time she left the house. But then Allison Argent transferred to Lydia’s high school their sophomore year and everything changed. Allison’s Mark was a small arrowhead set above her right eyebrow, the black stark against her white skin. Allison did not cover it up or let people try to make a big deal about the fact that she hadn’t found her soulmate.

“The way I see it,” She’d whispered to Lydia one night as the two were going to bed, their foreheads pressed together in the darkness of Lydia’s bedroom. “I have to grow into the person that I’m meant to be before I meet whoever this guy—“

“Or girl,” Lydia had interjected pointedly.

“—this guy _or girl_ who is supposed to compliment me. One day I’ll be ready for this person, but I have to finish…finish cooking first.”

Allison had giggled then and Lydia loved that she said _compliment_ instead of _complete_ and she loved Allison’s laugh and the way the moonlight made her skin glow. She stopped covering up her Mark and started holding hands with Allison in the hallway, trading smiles over the looks they’d get with their fierce eyes and mismatched Marks.

But Allison never got to meet her compliment.

She died on a hunting trip with her father when she and Lydia were juniors in high school. Lydia still woke up in the night sometimes with her breath caught somewhere in her throat, swearing that she could hear Allison’s voice in her ear.

Today, with her Mark glowing gold on her cheek, Lydia is getting a different kind of attention than she is used to. Instead of the condescending, consoling stares she had grown accustomed to, Lydia is receiving knowing smiles and sly looks. Some point to their own golden Marks with a wink as she passes. Other people with Marks black on their skin stare at her with jealousy or bitterness. Lydia has the distinct feeling that she had been unwillingly admitted into a secret club where everyone flaunts their apparent happiness—something Lydia found pretentious at best.

If she ever saw her soulmate again, she was going to _kill_ him.

She walks up to the library to meet Malia (an uncharacteristically ten minutes late, she might add) and finds her roommate standing next to the entrance, her face practically glued to her phone. She’s wearing Lydia’s warmest winter coat (no doubt stolen from Lydia’s closet after Lydia had left for class) paired with her signature short shorts and thigh-high boots despite the biting cold. Lydia rolls her eyes, but smiles despite herself.

“Sorry I’m late,” She says, coming to a halt in front of Malia. She glances down at Malia’s screen and smiles. “Bejeweled? Really?”

“Don’t laugh, I’ve almost beat my high sc—holy shit!”

Malia cuts herself off as she looks up and sees Lydia’s Mark, still warm against her face.

“You met your match!” Malia exclaims, hopping up and down excitedly as she shoves her phone into the depths of her coat. Her dark hair, recently cut, bounces around her excited face.

“Well, that’s a way to put it,” Lydia says with an eye roll. She takes Malia by the wrist and pulls the girl into the library’s atrium to get out of the cold.

“So tell me the story, girl!” Malia shouts as they cross into the library proper, her voice echoing among the stacks. Lydia winces as several people turn to look at them disapprovingly.

“Keep your voice down,” She hisses, releasing her hold on Malia and heading towards one of the private study rooms in the back of the building. “I’ll tell you in a second.”

“I can’t believe it!” Malia laughs, her voice only slightly lower than before. “This should be good.”

Lydia reaches a free room and ducks into it, throwing her bag on the table while Malia closes the door behind them.

“Spill,” Malia says, slumping down into one of the uncomfortable chairs while shedding off her coat. Lydia doesn’t sit yet. Instead she rips her scarf off and deposits it on the table, starting to pace angrily.

“It was this guy on the train,” She grumbled. “He told me about this app where you can track sharks.”  


“I heard about that! Don’t they give them names?”

“Yeah, it’s like a shark soap opera.”

Lydia almost wants to smack herself for saying it. Malia giggles, drawing her long legs up next to her in the chair.

“So, what’s he like? What’s his name? Is he hot?” Malia asks, brown eyes wide and looking up at Lydia earnestly.

“I don’t know!” Lydia exclaims, throwing her hands up and then setting them on her hips. “I mean, _yes_ he’s attractive, I guess, but he didn’t tell me his name or anything.”

“…What?”

“He told me about the stupid shark app, then asked me if I believe in fate, then he just fucking _left_ and stood there on the platform smiling at me while the train left.”

Malia tries to stifle a laugh and fails miserably, the sound grating out of her nose. Lydia spins and glares.

“Oh, don’t glare at me Lydia Martin,” Malia says, smile still stretched across her face. “You know just as well as I do that only _your_ match would do something as stupid as that.”

Lydia makes a sound between a groan and a sigh, dropping down into an available chair.

“Well, because he’s an _idiot_ , I’ll probably never see him again,” Lydia says, fishing her worn copy of The Riverside Shakespeare out of her bag. Malia growls in front of her, laying her head down on the table between them.

“No, put that away,” She begs, her voice muffled by the laminate wood.

“You’re the one that chose Shakespeare over Chaucer,” Lydia quips back. She opens the book up to _Much Ado About Nothing_ , the page already marked with a green pen.

“They’re both terrible, dead old men,” Malia responds, picking her head up with a frown.

Lydia shrugs and shakes her head, smiling slightly.

“At least you’ve got me to help translate it for you.”

She winks and Malia rolls her eyes, but laughs anyway. She reaches into her bag and drags out her own Riverside, slamming it down on the desk. As she does, Lydia sees the thin black plus sign on the inside of Malia’s wrist. Briefly, Lydia misses when her own Mark was black against her cheek, but she quickly pushes the thought out of her head. There’s nothing she can change about it now.

“ _If it prove so, then loving goes by haps:/Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps_.”

* * *

Three hours later, Lydia stops by the main library counter to check out a few of late books while Malia runs outside to answer a phone call. The girl behind the counter is around her age with a glowing golden octagon on her forearm. As she catches sight of Lydia’s Mark, she smiles wide.

“How long since you met your soulmate?” The girl asks, taking the books and Lydia’s debit card from Lydia’s outstretched hands.

“I met Stephen last month,” The girl continues without waiting for Lydia to answer, processing the books quickly and handing Lydia’s card back to her. “We’re planning for a wedding in May. Can you believe it?”

“That’s…great,” Lydia manages, smiling awkwardly. _Who marries someone after only knowing them for a month?_ The girl looks confused for a moment, but Lydia takes her cards and leaves before the girl can say anything else.

She’s definitely going to kill her soulmate if she sees him again.


	2. November (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t believe in fate,” She replies. “This is just a coincidence.”
> 
> “Coincidence?” He laughs. “You really believe what you’re saying right now?”
> 
> Or: Chapter 2 of the Stydia Soulmate AU no one asked for.

**November (1).**

Malia pulls a B- on her Shakespeare exam. She comes home from class on Monday afternoon with a proud smile across her face and slams the test down onto their small dining room table while Lydia is eating Lucky Charms and lazily reading articles on her phone.

“Look at you!” Lydia exclaims through a mouthful of dehydrated marshmallows.

“I know!” Malia crows happily. “Do you want to go down to Hannigan’s to celebrate?”

Lydia shakes her head as she shovels the last of her cereal in her mouth. 

“Can’t,” She says after she swallows, checking the time. “I’ve got to head down to the lab.”

She stands and deposits her bowl in the sink before tugging on the warm coat hung up by the door.

“Ugh, you spend _all_ your time there. Wouldn’t you rather come get a drink with me in a dark, smelly bar?”

Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Ask me again when you get an A.”

Malia groans and flops facedown onto their shabby couch while Lydia grabs her purse from the coffee table.

“Who am I supposed to hang out with?” She moans into the fabric as Lydia heads for the door.

“Your _other friends_.”

“What ‘other friends?’”

“Kira’s back in town, according to Facebook…”

Malia sits up abruptly, her eyes narrowed.

“Don’t _even_ ,” She growls.

Lydia laughs as she leaves, pulling the door shut behind her.

\- - -

Half an hour later, Lydia is heading for the lab with her eye on the time when she passes by a café and sees an unmistakable flash of dull orange that stops her in her tracks. She stares openly through the window, her heart stuttering a strange pattern inside of her chest.

Her _soulmate_ sits inside of the café, his navy peacoat thrown across the chair behind him and his stupid bomber hat still shoved on his head. One of his hands is drawn up to his mouth, his neat teeth gnawing on the skin around the edge of his thumbnail while the other hand scribbles something into a notebook laid on the table in front of him. Lydia pauses, torn. This is _statistically impossible_ and she knows she will be late if she stops, but…

Lydia squares her shoulders, then turns and stomps into the café. She marches up to the small table her soulmate is sitting at, pulls out the chair across from him (denying his long legs a footstool, she notices with a rush of satisfaction), and perches herself there, her back straight and her hands steepled on the table in front of her. Her soulmate lets out a yell of protest before he looks up and sees who is sitting across from him. His face immediately lights up, his wide eyes glowing in the sunlight coming through the window.

“No,” Lydia says before he can say anything, finally answering the question he had posed to her almost a full month before. He just smiles wider.

“You can’t honestly tell me you don’t believe in fate,” He responds quickly. He leans back in his chair, his hands meeting behind his head. Lydia notices a tattoo of intertwined peonies climbing along the inside of his bicep. She ignores the stab of heat that sparks in her stomach.

“I don’t believe in fate,” She replies. “This is just a coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” He laughs. “You really believe what you’re saying right now?”

He takes a moment to pull the bomber cap off his head, throwing it on top of the notebook between them. His hair somehow manages to be casually spikey despite the woolen prison he had confined it in.

“Fact 1,” He says, holding up a single slender finger and patting it against the palm of the opposite hand. “We have identical Marks that turned gold when we met.”

“Irrelevant,” Lydia counters. “People with different Marks have perfectly—“

“Fact 2,” He says over her, drawing glances from the surrounding tables. “In a city with literally _millions_ of people you happened to walk past the _one_ café that I happen to frequent at _precisely_ the moment that I was sitting in the window.” 

“ _Also_ irrelevant—“

“Fact 3—and this one’s a big one—even though you claim _not_ to believe in fate, you _still came in here to talk to me_.”

Lydia mashes her lips together and crosses her arms over her chest. A cocky smile spreads across his face. Lydia could slap him.

“Are you done?” Lydia asks, the sneer evident in her tone. He nods, unfazed.

“Okay, firstly, if you interrupt me again I’ll actually strangle you to death. Secondly, the Marks don’t mean _anything_. People with different Marks or no Marks have perfectly happy, functioning, loving relationships and, _more importantly_ , some people with matching Marks don’t stay together. These,“—she gestures towards the Mark on her face—“are not a guarantee that we’re even going to like each other. You can’t sit there and tell me that you and I are supposed to run off into the sunset and get married in six months when _I don’t even know your name_.”

“Oh, God, no,” He replies, frowning. “A wedding in May? Are you crazy? We’ll get married in October.”

Lydia glares at him and he laughs, throwing his head back.

“No, okay, look,” He reaches forward, his hand outstretched between them with the golden cog in the center of his palm visible. Lydia narrows her eyes, but reaches forward and takes his hand in hers. His skin is pleasantly warm, the cog on his skin pulsing lightly in time with his heartbeat.

“Hello,” He smiles, shaking her hand firmly. “I’m Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.”

“Lydia Martin,” She responds.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lydia Martin,” He says. He takes a little too long to let go of her hand, but she lets him just this once.

Lydia stands and straightens her skirt, her hand suddenly cold without the heat from his palm against hers.

“Are you leaving?” He asks, alarm flashing briefly over his face before it’s replaced with forced aloofness.

“I’ve got to get to work,” She says, checking the time on her phone and tsking. “I’m going to be so late.”

“Can I have your number?” Stiles says quickly, pulling his phone out of his pocket and promptly dropping it on the ground. It bounces once and lands neatly at Lydia’s feet. Lydia laughs as he turns bright red, but bends down to retrieve it for him. She quickly makes a new contact for herself in his phone, adding a star emoji before her name. She hands his phone back and gives an awkward wave goodbye before turning and quickly leaving. Her phone buzzes in her jacket pocket before the door even shuts behind her. She stops to look at it in front of the window that Stiles is smiling out at her from.

**_Unknown Number_ **

_Bye, future wifey._

Lydia glares up at Stiles through the window. He winks down at her, giving a thumbs up. Lydia responds with an exaggerated eye roll and a raised middle finger before she continues down the street. He’s still laughing as she rounds the corner and disappears from sight.

\- - -

“You’re late,” Scott shouts as Stiles stumbles into the practice space. Scott’s already got his Fender in hand, focused on the effects pedal in front of him. Derek stands off to the side, his guitar slung over his back as he speaks to someone quietly on the phone. Isaac’s sitting on a stool near Scott, his bass pulled almost comically high on his chest (Stiles makes a mental note to mock him for it later).

“Lydia Martin!” Stiles yells in response, throwing his bag down next to the door and scrambling up to Scott, his phone held out. “Her name is Lydia Martin!”

On his way to practice, Stiles had taken the time to Facebook stalk Lydia and save several of her profile pictures to his phone. He’s pulled up his favorite, a picture of Lydia posing at a bar next to a fierce-looking girl with long blonde hair. She’s mid-laugh, her head thrown back slightly, the harsh light of the flash highlighting the flush in her cheeks against her pale skin. The cog on her cheeks stands out, a tittle to her dimple. 

“Holy shit, you found her,” Scott says, taking Stiles’s phone from him and holding it close to his face to study the picture of Lydia. Stiles swings his arms out wide in triumph, then brings them back together with a clap.

“I told you!” Stiles says. “She saw me at Has Beans and came in! I’ve got her number and everything!”

Isaac leans over Scott’s shoulder to look at the phone and lets out a low whistle.

“Great job, Stilinski,” Isaac nods. “Except now I owe Erica twenty bucks. I definitely thought you’d never find her again.”

“You should slide it straight over to me, Lahey, ‘cause I bet Erica twenty bucks that your IQ drops when you wear big stupid scarves,” Stiles shoots back, raising an eyebrow in a challenge while Scott hands him his phone back.

“Low blow, man!” Isaac exclaims, standing up and reaching for his oversized black scarf angrily. “You think just because you found your _soulmate_ —“

“Shut up,” Derek thunders over them, causing Stiles and Isaac to immediately quiet down. Their older band mate steps forward and slips his phone into his painted-on jeans. He crosses his arms over his equally painted-on shirt and stares down at the younger boys with dark eyes, his permanent frown set on his tan face. His golden Mark, three vertical lines high on the left side of his neck, glow brightly against his skin.

Scott met Derek when he was a freshman in college while Derek was a senior. They’d found a common interest in sad ‘80s music and angry ‘90s grunge and had decided to form a band that summer with Derek on lead guitar and Scott on lead vocals and back-up guitar. Scott had, naturally, pulled Stiles in on the drums. Four months later, Derek found Isaac wailing out shitty poetry in a local hookah bar and quickly added him to the pack (despite protests from Stiles). He swore he saw “potential” in the blond and, if you got him drunk, even Stiles would admit that Isaac could be _worse_. Derek had dubbed their quartet Triskelion (“But Derek, there are _four_ of us and the triskelion symbolizes— _stop looking at me like that what the fuck man_?”) and for the last three years they’d been a favorite in the local scene. They had _t-shirts_ for fuck’s sake—and sometimes they even saw people in the mall wearing them.

“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” He says, his tone uncharacteristically light. “The good news is that we’ve got a show this Saturday.”

Stiles whoops as Scott cheers and lets a crooked smile spread across his face. Behind them, Isaac plays a few chords on his bass in celebration.

“So what’s the bad news?” Scott asks, brow knitting together.

Derek sighs through his nose, but a smile spreads across his face. Stiles is immediately alarmed.

“Braeden got the job with the FBI. We’re moving to D.C.”

The three boys stand silently for a moment, shocked.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Stiles finally breathes out.

“That’s—that’s great! Good for her! For both of you!” Scott manages.

“So what’s that mean for us?” Isaac says from the back, voicing the question the three of them all want to ask.

Derek uncrosses his arms and pulls his guitar around to his front.

“It means we’re going to play an amazing show this Saturday,” He says, strumming the beginning chords of their newest song. “After that, it’s up to you guys.”

“ _Oh_ , _fuck_ ,” Stiles repeats, louder.

“We’re really gonna miss you, man,” Scott says, looking like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Shut up, McCall,” Derek answers, but he smiles ( _seriously, he needs to stop smiling this is too much for Stiles to handle_ ) and takes his place in front of a mic. “Now get your asses over here and let’s practice.”

\- - -

“What kind of name is _Stiles_?” Malia ask, wrinkling her nose as she stares down at the picture Lydia is showing her on her phone.

As soon as Lydia had left the lab (where she had made at least _four_ stupid mistakes, much to her chagrin) she found a Facebook friend request from Stiles Stilinski as well as seven unread text messages from him—five of which were random animal facts. She had accepted the friend request, shot back a simple text demanding that he _stop_ calling her “future wifey” and spent the rest of the trip willing herself not to look through his photos. However, when Lydia had returned home and told her roommate about what had happened, Malia had demanded to see a picture. His current profile picture was a cropped, blurry shot of him sitting behind a drum set and the picture after that was an uncropped version of his current profile picture, but the third was a flattering shot of Stiles sitting in a high-backed dining chair with rosy cheeks, a wide smile spread across his face. He was holding his hand up in greeting to whoever took the picture, conveniently showing the Mark on his palm.

“I think it’s a nickname,” Lydia responds. “I mean, it’s got to be a nickname, right?”

Malia shrugs, handing Lydia’s phone back to her.

“He’s cute,” She says, nodding in approval. “And he’s in a band?”

“According to Facebook.”

“What’s it called?”

“Triskelion?”

“Oh!” Malia perks up, pushing herself up onto her elbows from her place on the couch. “I’ve heard of them! They’re supposed to be really good!”

Lydia shrugs and sinks down into their armchair, slipping off her heels.

“Are you going to like…hang out with him or anything?” Malia asks, propping her head up on her hand to stare over at the redhead.

“I don’t know,” Lydia sighs, reaching down to massage her calves. “I mean, he seems _fine_ but if I’m going to get a Fields Medal before I’m 30 I can’t really afford to be distracted.”

“Lydia, you know I love you,” Malia says, pushing herself up into a sitting position and drawing her legs underneath her. “But you’re going to work yourself to death if you keep up at this pace.”

Lydia scoffs.

“You think I should give up on the dream I’ve had since I was seven to go chase after this guy I _just_ met?”

“No,” Malia answers. “I’m just saying he could be fun.”

“Fun is for the weak,” Lydia answers automatically, smiling.

“Then I’d rather be weak,” Malia smiles back.

They laugh with each other and Lydia feels a small tug in her chest ( _ten days how can you laugh in ten days it will be five years_ ) but then her phone begins to ring. Lydia frowns as she picks it up.

“Who even calls anymore?” Malia asks from the couch, mirroring Lydia’s expression.

“Shit, it’s Stiles!” Lydia responds, sitting up in her chair as she looks down at the name displayed across her screen. She realizes with a jolt that it’s the first time she’s said his name out loud. She hates the way it fits so neatly in her mouth, rolling off her tongue like she had been saying it her whole life.

“Answer it!” Malia yells, sitting up on her knees with a smile spread across her face. “Answer it, answer it now!”

Lydia holds up a hand to silence her as she swipes right to answer the call.

“Uh…hi?”

Malia stifles a laugh. Lydia glares.

“Heeeeeey, future wifey,” Stiles says, his voice loud. He sounds slightly out of breath, but Lydia can hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m going to hang up now.”

Malia has crawled as close to Lydia as she can from the couch in order to hear the conversation, leaning over the armrest so far that Lydia is sure she’s going to fall.

“No, don’t hang up!” Stiles exclaims. There’s a shuffle as though he’s moved the phone to his other ear.

“Why did you call me, stranger?” Lydia asks. She stands up in the seat of her chair and plants a foot on either armrest—a leftover restless habit from her childhood.

“I’ve just had a _bitch_ of a day and felt like complaining to someone.”

Malia giggles from the couch, teetering backwards and falling onto her back. Lydia waves a hand to shush her and quickly steps over the end table to stand on the armrest of the couch that Malia had just vacated.

“So you chose me to complain to?”

“Well, my normal guy had to go to the library because he’s a dweeb—“

“Who the hell says _dweeb_ anymore?”

“—so, I thought I’d give you a ring to see if I could unload my problems on you while I suffer through the walk home by my lonesome.”

Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Proceed with your unloading.”

Stiles inhales deeply before beginning, the words rushing out of him in a single breath.

“Right, so, I’m in this band with these three other guys and the main guitarist told us today that he has to move to D.C. because his girlfriend is a super badass who just got hired by the FBI to fight crime or find aliens or whatever it is that the FBI does so now we need to find another guitarist but since we’re all swamped with school we don’t really have the time to do that so basically we’re _fucked_.”

Lydia steps up onto the back of the couch.

“That’s all? That’s your bitch of a day? You just need to find a guitarist?”

“I also dropped my waffle onto the floor this morning. Oh, and I made an ass of myself in front of a pretty girl at Has Beans when I accidentally threw my phone at her.”

Lydia snorts.

“Nice line. But if all you need is a guitarist, I know a really good one who just moved back into town.”

Malia suddenly stands in her seat, her mouth open and her eyes wild. She shakes her head ferociously, mouthing the words “ _don’t you dare_.”

“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”

“ _Her_ name is Kira. Kira Yukimura.”

Lydia dodges Malia’s outstretched hand, jumping onto the floor while Malia climbs onto the back of the couch after her.

“ _What in the hell are you doing?_ ” She hisses under her breath. Lydia holds her hand up to quiet her and Malia stops, perched on the back of the couch like a gargoyle.

“I haven’t heard of her,” Stiles replies. “But, hey, she’s welcome to come down to audition with us if she wants. I’m sure she’ll like us ‘cause we’re super rad and all, but we’ve got a show this Saturday at Deucalion’s if you want to bring her to come see us play.”

“What makes you think _I’d_ go to a crappy bar—“

“It’s not so bad anymore since they fixed the pipes.“

“—to see you play? I can just tell Kira and she can go by herself.”

“I’ll put you on the list and you can get in for free. You can walk up to the guy at the door and be all ‘I’m on the list’ and bam, you get in for free.”

“You’re not making a very strong case.”

“I can also get Kira in for free. She can also walk up to the guy and the door and be all ‘I’m on the list’ and—“

“Still not good enough.”

Stiles lets out an exaggerated whine.

“I will also buy all of your drinks.”

“ _Now_ you have my attention.”

“But only _your_ drinks. Your friend is on her own.”

Malia groans and falls backwards onto the cushions of the couch, her legs draped over the back of the couch.

“Can my roommate get in on the magical list, too?” Lydia asks.

Malia kicks her legs in protest, but doesn’t make a sound.

“I should be able to swing that, sure,” Stiles responds. “But I’m not buying her drinks either. _Only yours_.”

“Perfect. I’ll text Kira tonight and let you know what she says.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says. There’s the sound of a door opening and shutting.

“Are you home now?” Lydia asks. She walks back to the armchair she was in when he called, slumping down into it.

“Just walked into the lobby,” He replies. “I have to let you go now. I’ll definitely lose you in this shitty elevator.”

“Alright. Bye, stranger.”

“So, hey, if Kira ends up joining our band will you concede that fate exists?”

“No. _Bye_ , Stiles.”

Stiles laughs.

“Bye, Lydia.”

Lydia hangs up the phone and sets it on the end table next to her. Malia sits up and haughtily crosses her arms over her chest.

“I’m not going,” She says.

“Yes, you are,” Lydia replies, suppressing a yawn behind her hand. “You will go and you will have fun and you are going to be an adult about this. Do you remember when I went with you to Danny Mahealani’s party at great personal embarrassment to myself?”

Malia lets out an obnoxious sigh.

“ _Fine_ ,” She says. “I’ll go with you to watch your _soulmate_ play in his dumb band. But I’m not gonna have fun.”

She stands and stomps to her bedroom, slamming the door a little louder than necessary.

“You still have to be an adult about this!” Lydia calls to her. On the end table, her phone buzzes.

**_Stiles Stilinski_ **

_DID YOU KNOW that hippos sweat pink???_


	3. November (2).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cover charge is $15,” He yells over the blare before Lydia can speak.
> 
> “Uh…we’re on the list?”

**November (2).**

“Please don’t make me go.”

Lydia finishes typing her text to Stiles assuring him that _yes, for the millionth time we are_ _on the way_ before she glances over at the brunette pleading with her.

“We’re only two stops away from where we need to get off and we’re already late because you won’t quit acting like a child. You’re coming.”

Malia groans too loudly and throws her head back, thwacking it dully against the train’s dirty window.

“Stop acting like this is the end of the world,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes. “Things didn’t end _that_ poorly with you and Kira. I don’t know why you’re trying to avoid her so thoroughly.”

“Things ended _so_ poorly,” Malia shoots back, crossing her arms over her chest and hunkering down in her seat.  Her jacket bunches up adorably around her cheeks and Lydia laughs as the train jerks to a halt.

“You guys broke up in high school, I’m positive she’s over it.”

“We didn’t even really date how could we have—“

“You two were _absolutely_ dating! You held hands in the hallways and made out underneath the bleachers and passed love notes in class just like couples do.”

“Well so did you and Alli—“

Malia stops herself before she can say it. Lydia’s heart goes cold and a shudder rolls up her back that she hides as the train moves forward.

“Sorry,” Malia mutters, sinking even further in her seat and refusing to look at Lydia. “I didn’t—I know—Sorry.”

Lydia takes a deep breath in through her nose and exhales evenly, forcing her heart to stop aching and resume its normal pace. She reaches out a hand and sets in on Malia’s bare knee, squeezing slightly in forgiveness before she pulls her hand back to her lap.

“Look, we’re going to this show and we’re going to drink and have fun and you’re going to be nice to Kira because I’m one hundred percent sure that she’s forgiven you for breaking up with her at graduation like an _asshole_ because that girl is a fucking treasure. Okay?”

“Okay,” Malia says, meekly.

They sit in tense silence for nearly four solid minutes before Malia gains the courage to speak.

“So, does us going to this show mean that you’ve changed your mind?”

“Changed my mind about what?” Lydia asks, standing as the train begins screeching to a halt. Malia follows, a wide smile spreading across her face.

“Changed your mind about your _soulmate_.”

Lydia frowns and rolls her eyes as the train stops and the doors open. Together, the girls exit onto the dirty platform and begin heading briskly for the exit.

“Changed it from what to what?”

“Do you like him? I mean you text him _all the time_ —“

“ _He_ texts _me_ all of the time.”

“But you text back all of the time!”

Lydia pushes through the turnstile and heads up the stairs to the outside, a freezing blast of wind shooting down and blowing her curled hair back from her face. She pulls her jacket closer, cursing herself for wearing a skirt that is seasonally too short and leggings that are way too thin. They turn right, starting the two blocks towards Deucalion’s.

“I can talk to him without dating him.”

“Right. But do you like him?”

“I like plenty of people that I don’t intend to date.”

“But do you _like_ him like him?”

“I am not in elementary school anymore, Malia, I don’t ‘ _like_ like’ people.”

“Do you _adult_ like him like him?”

“I’m not responding to this ridiculous line of questioning anymore.”

Malia giggles and skips forward, wrapping her warm hand around Lydia’s freezing fingers.

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop,” Malia says through her grin. “Just don’t hold back if you like him like him, okay?”

She squeezes Lydia’s hand for emphasis and Lydia finds herself smiling.

“You know me,” She responds shortly as the two round the corner and come into view of Deucalion’s. They make it within thirty feet of the entrance when Malia rips her hand out of Lydia’s and lets out a strangled whine.

Kira stands awkwardly by the door, half-hidden in darkness while her eyes dart around and she shuffles her Nike-clad feet to keep warm. She looks almost exactly as Lydia remembered her from high school, from the long dark hair to the tattered leather jacket hugging her shoulders. As Kira sees the two girls approaching, a smile breaks across her face, only faltering slightly as she glances towards Malia.

“Sorry we’re late!” Lydia exclaims, stepping forward and pulling Kira into a hug. Kira responds clumsily, but enthusiastically, her arms hovering wildly over Lydia’s back before she finally gives in and wraps her arms around the redhead’s waist.

“It’s okay!” She laughs, pulling back. “I’m so glad you called! This should be fun, right? I think it’ll be fun.”

She lets out a nervous peal of laughter before her eyes slide to Malia, standing stiffly behind Lydia.

“Hey, Malia,” Kira offers, her smile just a little too tight. Malia responds with an equally strained smile and a limp wave. Lydia looks between them and shakes her head.

“Let’s head inside where it’s warm,” She says, heading for the entrance. The other girls quickly follow, making sure not to touch as they crowd together through the door.

Deucalion’s is just as dirty as Lydia was expecting. The large room is lit only with blue spotlights and a string of half-broken, blinking Christmas lights tacked over the bar and the arch in the back wall that leads to the bathrooms and the band storage area. A low stage dominates the left-hand corner of the venue, the floor sagging slightly under the weight of the instruments and a group of skinny teenage boys wearing pants three sizes too small who are screeching unintelligible words while producing a cacophony of off-beat noise. A large billiards table is set up close to the bar and several people milling around are perched on the edges. Despite the no smoking laws, the smell of stale smoke and spilled beer permeates the structure. A high table is on their immediate right, behind which sits a muscular man with a passive scowl on his face. A golden triangle glows against his black skin, nestled at the hollow of his throat. He does not look up at Lydia as she approaches, his eyes focused instead on the phone in his huge hands.

“Cover charge is $15,” He yells over the blare before Lydia can speak.

“Uh…we’re on the list?” 

The man slowly looks up and his eyes fall on Lydia’s Mark. He smirks, leaning forward with a pen in hand and crossing three names off a dirty sheet of paper in front of him.

“So you’re Stilinski’s girl?”

Lydia bristles.

“I’m a girl that knows Stilinski,” She shoots back, her lips pursed. He laughs shortly and holds out a bright pink wristband. Lydia holds her wrist up and he attaches it there for her.

“Yeah, he said you’d be like that.”

“Like what?” Lydia asks as he puts wristbands on Kira and Malia.

“Ask him yourself,” He says, gesturing behind her with a jerk of his head.

Lydia turns and finds Stiles emerging from the back of the building, his eyes roaming the crowd. When he catches sight of Lydia, a crooked smile blossoms across his face and he raises his hand in greeting. As he strides over, Lydia plants her hands on her hips and frowns at him. The band on the stage abruptly finishes playing, the lead singer muttering a thanks into the mic before they begin unloading their equipment off the stage. There’s scattered applause.

“What have you been telling people about me?” She asks when Stiles gets close, her ears ringing in the sudden silence.

“I see you’ve met Boyd,” Stiles says, waving at the guy behind the table.

“ _What have you been telling people about me_?” Lydia repeats.

“No—nothing!” Stiles exclaims, holding his hands up. “I haven’t said anything, I swear!”

“He said you’d be a firecracker,” Boyd says behind them. Lydia hears Kira giggle. “Now will you guys move?”

The door has opened and a gaggle of high schoolers all wearing heavy make up and Triskelion t-shirts have filed in, glancing nervously around the crowded bar with awkward smiles. One of them stares at Stiles with her mouth hanging open, clearly enamored by his long eyelashes and the tight V-neck that he is somehow pulling off. Lydia reaches out and taps Stiles on the chest, pushing him slightly. He takes the hint and back pedals, guiding Lydia and her friends over to the bar. A girl about their age with long, wavy blonde hair puts a beer down on the bar as Stiles approaches, smirking at him. Stiles takes it with a nod and turns back to Lydia.

“So introduce me to your friends,” He says, raising the beer and taking a sip without breaking eye contact. Lydia feels a flush across her chest as she watches his lips wrap around the glass of the bottle, but she quickly pushes it away as she turns to the two girls standing awkwardly next to each other.

“This is my roommate, Malia Tate, and our friend Kira Yukimura.”

“You’re Kira the guitarist?” He asks Kira, an easy smile across his face.

“Er—yeah! Yeah, that’s me,” Kira says, smiling nervously.

“Very cool! I’ll go grab Scott and introduce you!”

As he turns to leave, Lydia grabs him by the back of his t-shirt and pulls him back. He flails a bit as he spins around, spilling beer up his arm.

“What about my free drinks?” She asks, ignoring his frown.

“Oh!” He leans over and obnoxiously waves a hand at the blonde bartender, who is serving drinks on the other end of the bar. She sees him waving and dramatically sighs, stomping over.

“What do you want, Batman?” She asks. Stiles laughs sarcastically at her.

“Look, _Catwoman_ , I need a favor,” He says, pointing at Lydia. “I need you to give this beautiful girl here drinks on my tab, but _just_ this beautiful girl. Not her two friends. Just _this_ beautiful girl, okay?”

“Oh, so just _that_ beautiful girl?” The girl repeats, pointing at Lydia.

“Yes, exactly, _just this beautiful girl_ ,” He puts an arm around Lydia’s shoulders quickly, his hand ghosting over her before he pulls back. He begins to walk towards the back of the building again, throwing up a finger gun and winking.

“Thanks, Erica!” He shouts over the growing noise of the crowd as he goes. “I’ll be right back!”

“So, beautiful girl,” Erica asks as soon as Stiles disappears into the back room, a wolfish smile across her face. “Would you like to buy your friends some drinks?”

Lydia laughs as she takes a seat on the worn stool in front of her. Malia takes the stool on her left while Kira sits on her right.

“I would love to!” Lydia says. “And you know, I think we’ve got expensive tastes tonight.”

Erica nods with a wink.

“Got it,” She laughs, turning and pulling down four dusty bottles from the shelf. As she comes back, Lydia sees a golden triangle shining on her chest, partially hidden in her cleavage.

“Are you with the guy at the door?” Malia asks, seeing the Mark as well.

“Yeah, that’s my Boyd,” Erica grins down at the glasses as she artfully pours in layer after layer of liquor. “We’ve been together 20 years now.”

“Holy shit,” Malia says. “So you two’ve been together since, like—“

“Since elementary school, yeah." 

“Oh! That’s…wow. How do you…?”

“How do you know Stiles?” Lydia asks over Malia, cutting off Malia’s questioning. Erica finishes the tall drinks with a flourish and drops cherries in each one before sliding them to the three girls across from her.

“I went to high school with him and—”

“Scott! Look, look Scott!”

Stiles returns, bounding over to the group of girls and standing excitedly next to Lydia. Scott trails behind him, looking slightly embarrassed at Stiles’s behavior but a friendly smile across his face. Scott’s cute in a puppy dog kind of way, Lydia decides as she takes a large gulp of her drink, with earnest eyes and a leather jacket that is a size too big for him. Stiles gestures wildly at Lydia, his beer gone.

“Look Scott, it’s Lydia! Lydia is here. Look, Scott, look.”

Scott laughs, reaching out to shake Lydia’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Lydia,” He says before turning to Erica. “You _know_ how he gets after two beers why did you give him another one?”

Erica smiles wickedly.

“It was his third.”

She sets a drink in front of Scott before dancing down to the other end of the bar. Scott takes it with a laugh and a shake of his head as Lydia turns to Malia and Kira to introduce them.

“These are my friends, Malia and Kira.”

When she turns back around Scott is staring openly at Kira, his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes wide. He catches himself before Kira does, jamming his lips together and angling his beer to the two girls in greeting as Stiles dances back over to stand by his side.

“You’re Kira the guitarist?” Scott asks Kira.

“Scott, it’s Kira the guitarist!” Stiles says loudly over him, pointing to Kira.

“I…guess I’m Kira the guitarist?” Kira responds, her cheeks flushing as she drops her gaze to the drink she’s nursing between her cupped hands.

“Very cool, I hope you like our sound,” Scott says, smiling widely.

Lydia turns away from their conversation to focus on Stiles, who’s balancing on his heels a few steps away as he sways in time with the ‘90s alt song that’s begun playing as the band on the stage takes away the last of their instruments. As he catches Lydia’s eye he bounds forward to her.

“Hey, do you wanna head to the back and meet Derek and Isaac?” He asks in one breath.

“We can’t,” Scott interjects, clapping a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “We’ve got to start loading our stuff.”

“Oh yeah!” Stiles says. He points with both hands at Lydia.

“You guys wait here and we’ll send Braeden out to you, okay?” He says.

“Who’s—?” Lydia starts to ask, but Stiles and Scott are already weaving through the crowd, Stiles holding two thumbs up. 

Lydia turns to Malia, who is downing her drink. She finishes with a toss of her hand and pulls the cherry out of the ice at the bottom of her empty cup, popping the whole thing in her mouth.

“They seem nice,” Kira says tentatively, turning to Lydia.

“Stiles is _infuriating_ ,” Lydia responds, taking a long sip from her drink. Malia pulls a tied cherry stem out of her mouth and sets it down on the bar, then leans forward towards Kira and grins.

“I think she likes him,” She says.

“Like, _like_ likes him?” Kira asks.

“Oh my God,” Lydia groans, spinning her stool around to face the stage.

Stiles emerges from the back, a bass drum held aloft over his head while a brooding guy with a jaw like cut steel brings out a hi-hat and a guitar. Scott comes next, mounting the small stairs with his arms loaded with amps. A curly blond trails behind him, hauling an effects pedal with a bass slung over his back. As they turn and head back to get more gear from the back, a girl in expensive Italian boots trots out from the space. As Broody Steel Jaw passes, she reaches a hand out and smacks him squarely on the ass. He turns his head quickly to her, his eyes catching the spotlights from the stage and flashing blue. She winks at him and he laughs, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before he disappears in the back. The girl looks up the bar, her eyes landing on Lydia. She starts to walk towards them.

“Are you Lydia?” The girl asks when she gets close enough.

“Are you Braeden?” Lydia replies. The girl laughs.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Braeden says. “Do you three want to come stand near the stage?”

 “Er…sure!” Lydia says, hopping off of the stool and grabbing her drink from the bar. Malia quickly follows, her drink already gone. Malia takes Lydia loosely by the wrist as Braeden motions for them to follow her through the growing crowd. Kira hooks her fingers under the belt fastened loosely at Lydia’s waist to stay close. The alcohol has begun working its way through her and Lydia smiles wide at the feeling of Malia’s warm fingers against her skin and the pressure of Kira presence behind her. A loud boom sounds from the left as Triskelion begins sound checking their instruments. Lydia begins to laugh as they squeeze past the tightly packed mass, the sound swallowed up by the shriek of Scott’s guitar.

Lydia ends up shoulder-to-shoulder with Braeden and Malia. Kira stands on the other side of Braeden, her empty cup held awkwardly in her hands.

“So who are the other guys?” Malia asks Braeden, almost leaning over Lydia to ask. On the stage, Stiles assembles his drum set, stumbling over wires as he goes. He looks behind him and finds Lydia in the crowd, grinning widely at her. Feeling brave, Lydia raises her cup to her lips and winks at him over the rim. His face flushes pink and he drops one of his cymbals with a crash. Lydia laughs as he turns back to the drum set, the back of his neck red.

“That one’s Isaac,” Braeden says, pointing at the blond with the bass. “And the guy with the permanent frown is Derek.”

As if he could hear them, Derek turns to the crowd and finds Braeden at the front. A smile ghosts over his face before he slings his guitar over his shoulder and steps up to the mic, shouting “CHECK” to test the noise. Beside him, Scott does the same. Lydia notices the shining gold Mark on Derek’s neck and turns to Braeden, scanning the exposed skin and finding the matching Mark peeking out from under her collar.

“Where’d you meet him?” Lydia asks, angling a head towards Derek.

“Work,” Braeden says shortly.

“Ah,” Lydia responds awkwardly, nodding and draining the last of her drink.

“Nothing as romantic as meeting on the subway,” Braeden adds, smirking. Lydia groans.

“Has he been telling _everyone_ about me?” Lydia groans.

“Not _everyone_ ,” Braeden says, smiling. “Just everyone who will listen.”

“Even if you think you don’t like like him, he definitely like likes you,” Malia laughs into Lydia’s ear. Lydia opens her mouth to respond, but she’s cut off as Stiles unleashes a thunderous drum roll. She jabs an elbow into Malia’s ribs instead.

Scott steps up to his mic and a cheer ripples out from the audience, no one screaming louder than the group of teenage girls from before. Isaac begins plucking a few lonely chords, the low thrumming ringing out through the air. He pauses, his last notes hanging heavy in the air, then in a sudden rush everyone else joins in. The noise is rough, almost feral, and Lydia finds herself swinging her hips in time with the frantic beat. Beside her, Malia crows and raises her arms above her head. Scott is yelling words into the crackling mic, the ropes of his neck muscles straining under his tan skin. Derek steps forward and roars, his teeth bared. In the back, Stiles is putting his long arms to use, his hands a blur as they bounce across the drum set. Isaac is jumping in place erratically, but he soon drops to his knees as he furiously pounds on his bass. Braeden shouts out the lyrics along with Scott, her head thrown back. Lydia lets a yell rip out of her, feeling wild and happy and free. Then, as quickly as it started, they end the song with a crash. Lydia cheers with the rest of the crowd, applauding loudly. She catches Kira staring up at Scott with stars in her eyes. Malia is laughing excitedly as she claps. She looks over at Lydia and swoops in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. Lydia giggles. Malia winks.

Triskelion knows how to keep the crowd moving. Scott wails out songs about heartache and full moons and existentialism. At one point Isaac peels off his shirt and tosses it behind him, revealing a black spiral-shaped Mark on his side. The teenage girls scream so loudly that Lydia worries her eardrums will burst.

“Every fucking time,” She hears Braeden growl beside her.

After 14 songs, Scott leans close to the mic with a wide smile. His face shines in the light. In the back, Stiles pushes his damp hair back away from his forehead, exhaling. He looks exhausted, but happy. He winks in Lydia’s direction. She rolls her eyes, but can’t help the smirk that spreads across her lips. Her limbs are hot and loose from dancing and alcohol, her chest flushed.

“So…hey,” Scott says, his voice gravelly after an hour of screaming. The crowd yells back.

“It’s been pretty incredible sharing the stage with this guy right here,” He continues, swinging his hand out to gesture at Derek. The crowd cheers again as Derek nods his head, a smile fighting its way onto his face.

“But like they say, all good things and shit,” Scott laughs, strumming a few notes on his guitar. “So this is our last song.”

They start in again, even faster than before. The fans know this song, they’re already singing along before Scott can get the words out. Even Malia seems to know most of this one and she’s shouting out the lyrics into Lydia’s ear, her hands on Lydia’s shoulders as she jumps in place. Lydia’s hips jam into the stage as someone stumbles into her from behind. She’s laughing—deep, shaking laughs that rise from her belly to vibrate through her chest and out her smiling mouth. She loves this feeling: the pulse of the music, the press of the crowd, the hot energy surrounding her as the crowd surges forward. Scott is giving it his all, his eyes jammed shut and his fingers sliding down the neck of his guitar as he pours himself into the mic. Stiles is hovering over his seat, legs working frantically as he crashes down onto the cymbals. Derek is yelling harmonies with Scott and Isaac has pulled his bottom lip into his mouth as he sinks down once again to the floor. They finish with a lingering last note and Scott singing over the silence, mourning words flowing out and over the crowd. He finishes mid-word, pulling back and dropping his head, letting the buzz of the amps fill the space as the sound of the guitars cease. They sit quietly for two full seconds before the applause erupts. Lydia joins in, cheering along loudly with everyone else as the boys unplug their instruments and start hauling things off the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


	4. November (2) 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The lyrics are an in-depth history of the male circumcision told through the extended metaphor of Captain Ahab wanting to skin Moby Dick!” Stiles continues, the cords in his neck straining as his hands come up to card wildly through his hair. “Don’t you feel robbed, Derek?! I feel robbed. Scott does too! He told me so!”

**November (2) 2.**

“So what did you think of the show?”

Lydia lazily glances up from her strawberry-banana-chocolate chip pancakes. Across from her, Stiles hunches over a giant mound a greasy hashbrowns, his arms circling the plate like he’s protecting it. His whiskey eyes are still bright from the three shots he had swallowed while Derek and Scott were trying to wrangle the last of the equipment into their old trailer parked behind Deucalion’s. He had been loud and happy since then, flitting between Lydia and Scott and Braeden quicker than any of them could track on the entire two-block walk to the Crescent Diner.

“You guys were great!” Kira pipes up from Lydia’s left before Lydia can answer. Scott leans forward eagerly, almost knocking over his mug of coffee as he goes.

“You really think so?” He asks her.

“I liked that one you played third. No—fourth,” Lydia says, taking a syrupy bite of her pancakes.

“It’s called Snip Snip Motherfucker!” Stiles yells excitedly. Their waitress shoots them a dirty glance from behind the counter as Malia lets out a high-pitched giggle, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.

“It’s not called that!” Derek says sharply brandishing a fork with a skewered piece of sausage on the end.

“We don’t call it that!” He continues, turning to the girls with a stern look on his face.

“I wrote it!” Stiles responds, slapping a hand down on the sticky table. “I decide what it’s called and it’s called Snip Snip Motherfucker!”

Malia keeps giggling into her palm, shaking so hard in her seat that she almost tumbles out of the booth. Isaac reaches out and grips her shoulder to keep her in her seat, a goofy smile wide across his cheeks.

“ _It’s_ _not called that_ ,” Derek repeats, gesturing with the fork so hard that the piece of sausage sails off the end and lands in Braeden’s omelette. She shrugs and mixes it in with the fold of her eggs.

“The lyrics are an in-depth history of the male circumcision told through the extended metaphor of Captain Ahab wanting to skin Moby Dick!” Stiles continues, the cords in his neck straining as his hands come up to card wildly through his hair. “Don’t you feel robbed, Derek?! I feel _robbed_. Scott does too! He told me so!”

Malia drops her hand, deep belly laughs falling out of her. Lydia almost chokes on her pancakes, laughing into the back of her hand. Kira’s face has gone bright red, matching Scott’s flushed cheeks, though both are smiling.

“Drink some water, Stiles,” Scott says, sliding Stiles’s glass of water closer to him. Stiles seizes it and leans down, his tongue out and darting wildly around trying to find the straw as he glares up at Derek. Lydia laughs at him again as he finally claims the straw and sucks down the water like oxygen. She spends too long focused on the way his cheeks hollow when he drinks before quickly dropping her gaze back to her food.

“I’m so sorry you’re stuck with him as a soulmate,” Isaac says sympathetically to Lydia, funneling his own hashbrowns into his mouth.

“Oh, what does that even mean? _Soulmates_?” Lydia scoffs with a roll of her eyes. “The Marks don’t guarantee anything.”

Derek and Braeden look at each other and Braeden smiles wide. Lydia can see the matching Marks on their necks from her seat.

“I wouldn’t say that,” She says, turning to Lydia.

“You think her and Stiles should just get together, then?” Malia asks. Stiles lifts his head up from his drained glass, the straw still between his teeth 

“I wouldn’t say that, either,” Braeden replies, casually taking a bite of her omelette.

“What _would_ you say?” Malia presses. She swipes a piece of bacon off of Isaac’s plate and crams it in her mouth before he can object.

“I’d say…that it’s complicated.”

“That’s your big nugget of advice?” Lydia says. “That it’s _complicated_?”

“Look, these things aren’t an exact science,” Derek says, waving a hand towards his Mark. “It’s not like we saw each other and it was _love at first sight_ or anything.”

“It was more like we just…we knew there was a connection,” Braeden adds, nodding.

“I knew that she was going to be important to me in some way, I just didn’t know how.”

Isaac puts a hand up to his mouth and blows a noisy raspberry into it.

“Bullshit. Soulmates are soulmates are soulmates,” He says with a shrug, smacking Malia on the back of her hand with his fork as she tries to steal another piece of bacon. “You two were chosen by whoever or whatever is up there to _be_ together, so you _are_ together. Simple.”

“But what about the people who have matching Marks that _don’t_ get together?” Lydia asks.

Isaac shrugs.

“Then they’re stubborn,” He says simply, scraping the remaining food on his plate into a heap in the middle.

Lydia rolls her eyes.

“So you think people can’t have any meaningful relationships outside romantic ones?” She says. “What about people with different Marks who get together and stay together for years? What about people with no Marks at all? You think they’re doomed to an existence alone because they weren’t ‘blessed with the means to find their Match?’”—Lydia throws her fingers up in quotation marks as she recites the mantra they’ve all heard hundreds of times—“Love isn’t this one-shot thing. You _choose_ who you love and you _choose_ who means what to you, not some stupid mystical force.”

Malia begins to slow clap. When no one joins in, she stops, but not before she winks at Lydia. Isaac is staring at her with his mouth hanging slightly open, clearly at a loss for words.

“You don’t believe in fate?” Scott finally asks.

“She doesn’t believe in fate,” Stiles answers him, a bemused smile on his face.

“I don’t believe in fate,” Lydia affirms, nodding.

Scott looks at Stiles. Stiles shrugs, his smile still on his face.

“I believe in fate,” Stiles says. “I don’t believe in the Marks, but I believe in fate.”

“How do you _not_ believe in the Marks?” Isaac scoffs. 

“Like she says,” Stiles replies, nodding towards Lydia. “People with different Marks get together and stay together for years. People with no Marks at all fall in love. People with red Marks still find love and live out happy, healthy lives with happy, healthy relationships. The Marks are good guidelines, sure, but they’re not the end. 

Stiles leans down and starts shoveling the rest of the hashbrowns into his mouth, looking up at Lydia with bright eyes.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Isaac says. “You’re Golden.”

“No, I’m Stiles,” Stiles replies. “And you’re an idiot.”

“I’m with him,” Malia says, pointing at Stiles before Isaac can respond. “I haven’t found my Match, but that doesn’t mean I’m just gonna wait around for them to show up. _But_ I know I’ll meet my Match when I’m meant to meet them, you know?”

“I like her,” Stiles says to Lydia. “Stay friends with her. She’s smart.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and kicks Stiles underneath the table. He looks scandalized and kicks back, missing entirely and hitting the seat beside her. Lydia leans forward and steals a bite of hashbrowns. Stiles retaliates by stealing a stray syrup-soaked strawberry off of her plate. He grins at her from across the table, syrup trailing down his chin, and Lydia laughs.

“You don’t have a Mark,” Malia says, turning to Kira. The alcohol had made her braver about talking to her ex. “What do you think?”

Kira looks around in surprise. Scott perks up.

“You don’t have a Mark?” He asks. Kira shakes her head, cheeks red.

“Nah, I checked,” Malia grins. Lydia reaches behind Kira to smack Malia on the back of the head.

“ _Be nice_ ,” She hisses. Malia winces and nods.

“No, I don’t have a Mark,” Kira mutters shyly, shifting away from Malia. “And I—I don’t really know what I think. I mean, I _hoped_ fate was real, I guess. Or—I hope it _is_ real. But I don’t know.”

“Wonderfully said,” Derek says, pulling his phone out of his pocket and checking the time. “But we’ve got to go. 

Derek and Braeden scoot out of the booth and stand, Braeden stretching her arms behind her back and Derek tossing a handful of folded bills onto the table. Lydia glances down at her phone as well.

“We should head out, too,” She says to Malia, who is smiling coyly at Isaac with her hand on his leg. Malia spins around in her seat, still smiling.

“I think I’m gonna stay out a little while longer,” She says with a wink.

“Well, I’ve got a test tomorrow so I’m going to go home,” Lydia responds, nudging Kira and forcing her and Malia to get out of the booth so she can exit.

“I’ll walk you!” Stiles says, standing up so quickly that his knees knock into the table. Instead of making Scott move, he swings a long leg over the back of the booth and jumps down to the floor. He stumbles on the dismount, but quickly straightens up and tugs down his jacket.

“I can make it on my own,” Lydia says, planting her hands on her hips.

“Right, but I can help!” Stiles beams. His smile fades and he leans towards Scott.

Lydia sighs. It _would_ be nice to have company, even if that company was a loud, tipsy Stiles.

“ _Fine_ ,” She concedes, turning towards Malia. “Don’t stay out too late, you have a test tomorrow, too.”

Malia waves as Lydia turns and starts for the door, Stiles trailing happily behind her.

\- - -

“Stiles, the subway is _this_ way.”

“But wouldn’t you rather walk home?”

“It’s _thirty degrees_ and it’ll take an _hour_ to walk it.”

“So, we’ll make it a brisk walk.”

Stiles smiles as Lydia stops under a streetlight, her hair glowing like fire. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her arms tucked around her waist.

 _She’s beautiful_ , He thinks, his thoughts still fuzzy from good alcohol and good food and good company. He thinks about telling her, briefly, but decides that now is not the time.

“ _It’s thirty degrees_. You’ll freeze to death.”

“Guess you’ll have to walk close to me, then.”

“You’re crazy.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’ll walk through the park.”

Lydia lets out an exasperated sigh, the air leaving her in a misty cloud. Stiles smiles down at her. She shakes her head, her hair falling into her face, but she walks towards him and starts heading towards her apartment. He reaches into the pocket of his peacoat to grab his bomber hat, cramming it on his head as they start to walk.

“Hey,” Stiles says after a moment of comfortable silence. “Do you want to play Questions?”

“How in the hell do you play Questions?”

“It’s easy! I ask you a question and you answer it and then you ask me a question and I answer it.”

“So…you’re asking me to have a conversation with you?”

She’s trying to look aloof, but Stiles sees the smile tugging at her lips.

“No, I’m asking you to play Questions.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, but the smile stays.

“Fine, ask your question.”

“What are your parents like?”

“You’re starting with that one? Really?”

“We’re playing Questions, Lydia, you have to answer.”

They turn into the park, Stiles veering a little too sharply and almost knocking into Lydia.

“Fine. Dad works at a law practice in San Francisco. Mom’s a guidance counselor at a high school. They’re divorced. They have different Marks and uh…when Dad found his Match he left.”

“Well that’s super shitty. Is that why you don’t believe in the Marks?”

“Hold on, Stilinski, you already asked your question, it’s my turn.”

“Look at you! Getting the hang of Questions. But you’re right, sorry, go ahead.”

“What’s your favorite animal?”

“Oh, awesome starting question. _Sepia officinalis_.”

“The cuttlefish?”

“Yes! How’d you know? Normally people are stumped.”

“Triple major in biology, physics, and math. That counts as your question. My turn again.” 

Stiles laughs and shakes his head.

“You’re definitely winning this round.”

Lydia smiles slyly.

“Have you dated anyone before?”

“Ehhhhh…” Stiles makes a non-committal hand gesture. “I’ve had a few casual things. There was this girl, Heather. Our mom’s were friends, so we like, took bubble baths together when we were little kids. We messed around in high school, lost our virginities in her dad’s wine cellar on her seventeenth birthday—super proud of that, by the way. She just found her Match online. He seems nice. Lives in Romania.”

Lydia nods at him.

“Then there was Danny,” Stiles continues. “We were on the lacrosse team together. Short fling with Derek’s younger sister that same year. Scott and I got drunk our freshman year at University and made out, that was a crazy week. A random smattering of people since then, but nothing serious.”

Lydia laughs, the sound echoing through the bare trees around them. A couple rounds the path in front of Stiles and Lydia, sidestepping around them. Lydia moves closer to Stiles as they pass, her hand brushing accidently against his wrist. Her skin is warm against his. His head is clearer now, the cold counteracting the alcohol in his system. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“What about you? Any dalliances in your past?”

Lydia makes a strange noise that she covers by clearing her throat. Stiles pretends not to notice.

“There was Jackson Whittemore in high school. We were a power couple. But he moved away to London the summer before our junior year and he was an asshole anyway so it was really for the best. And there was…there were others. But nothing stayed—nothing stuck.”

She folds her hands in front of her, staring down at her intertwined fingers.

Stiles nudges her softly.

“Your turn,” He says.

“What are _your_ parents like?”

Stiles hums low in his throat.

“My father is the Sheriff of Beacon Hills back in California. He’s a good man. He’s the _best_ man.”

Stiles pauses, letting his eyes sweep over the naked branches and travel down to the layer of dead leaves that blanket the ground. Lydia glances up at him, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

“Mom died when I was eight,” He says, focusing on making sure his voice remains level. “Before she got sick, though, she was…she was the _sun_.”

Lydia opens her mouth to say something, then stops. They pass a few beats in silence before she tries again.

“Does it…does it get better?” She finally asks, her voice small but firm.

Stiles stops on the path and looks at her. Lydia takes a few steps before she realizes he isn’t beside her anymore and she turns to face him. He stares at her in front of him, her figure cast in shadows. Her Mark glints golden on her cheek in the faint light from a long-passed streetlight. Stiles focuses on it as he speaks.

“No,” He says. “It doesn’t.”

Lydia balls her hands up into fists next to her, then unclenches them.

“People always say it gets better,” She says, her voice stilted. “But every year it’s like—it’s like…” 

“It’s like you can’t catch your breath because you miss them so much?” Stiles finishes for her, taking a small step forward. Lydia looks up at him and nods. Stiles reaches out and curls the pinkie of his right hand around the pinkie of her left hand.

“I will tell you that it heals,” He says. “It’s still hard, but it’s less like an open wound. More like a scar.”

Lydia nods again, her gaze falling and focusing on his chest. Her lips are pressed together in a line. Some of her hair has fallen down into her face. Stiles almost brushes it behind her ear, but restrains himself. Instead, he squeezes her pinkie with his and pulls her gently along. They begin to walk again, Lydia staring down at the path. 

“Who’d you lose?” Stiles asks softly.

“My…Allison. My friend, Allison.”

Stiles reaches out another finger and wraps it around her ring finger. Lydia lets him.

“We were in high school together. On Thursday it’ll be five years.”

Stiles nods.

“It helps if you stay busy. Do you have plans?”

“Besides class and curling up alone on my couch trying not to cry?” Lydia says with a dry laugh.

“Yeah, that’s no good,” Stiles says, sending a small, supportive smile in her direction. “Instead of that, would you like to go to class and then come watch us practice? I told Scott to invite Kira so we could see how well she plays. Malia can come, too.”

“Will you bribe me with free drinks this time, too?” Lydia says, smirking up at him. Stiles laughs and swings their hands gently back and forth.

“We don’t drink around the expensive equipment,” He says. “I might’ve… _accidently_ damaged something and Derek made a no-liquid-but-water rule.”

Lydia chuckles. The bricks arch marking the exit to the park is around the next corner. Stiles can see the lights through the trees.

“Sure, it sounds fun,” Lydia says finally.

Stiles squeezes her fingers again.

“That’s the spirit, Martin.”

As they approach the arch, Stiles spots a smooth pebble at the base of bricks. He tightens his grip on Lydia’s fingers to make her stop, then leans down and picks it up. He begins to walk again, turning the cold rock over in his palm before he slips it into the pocket of his peacoat.

“What was that?” Lydia asks him, brow furrowed.

“It’s not your turn at Questions, Lydia,” Stiles responds, wagging his free finger at her. Lydia rolls her eyes as she leads them down a side street.

“Fine, ask your question. My apartment is just a few blocks away.”

“Did you have fun tonight?” Stiles asks, his 100-watt grin back on his face.

Lydia screws her face up at him. Stiles opens his mouth, feigning worry. Lydia giggles.

“ _Yes_ , Stiles, I had fun.”

“Good. Your turn.”

They turn another corner.

“Is Stiles your real name?”

“It’s my nickname.”

“What’s your real name?”

“It’s _my_ turn, Lydia. What’s your favorite color?”

“Lilac. What’s your real name?”

Stiles laughs, his cheeks going red. 

“Mściwòj,” He says, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his head under his cap. “Scott couldn’t pronounce it when we were kids, so he started calling me ‘Stiles’ and it stuck.”

“ _Mściwòj_ ,” Lydia tries out. “That’s a mouthful.”

“I know,” Stiles says, still flushed. “It was my Mom’s Dad’s name. What’s your favorite movie?”

“ _The Notebook_. This is my apartment.”

Lydia comes to a stop in front of a tall, worn building made of gray stone. She tugs her fingers from his grasp. He pretends not to miss the way she felt against him.

“You’ve got one more question,” Stiles says. Lydia looks up at him, emerald meeting amber.

“Why do you wear this ugly hat?” Lydia asks with a smile on her lips, tugging on the side flap of his bomber cap. Stiles laughs and slides it off his head, holding the worn orange fabric between his hands.

“My dad was wearing this when he met my mom,” Stiles responds, looking shyly up at Lydia from underneath his eyelashes. “I dug it out of the attic in high school and I’ve been wearing it ever since.”

Lydia smiles, taking the cap out of his hands and shoving it roughly back onto his head. She stares up at him for a moment, her eyes soft, before she shakes her head and starts walking up the stairs to her apartment. 

“Goodbye, Stiles,” She calls over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you Thursday,” He calls back. He waits for her to enter the main doors before he starts a slow walk towards the subway, his fingers still tingling from where they’d been curled around hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


	5. November (3).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know this is hard,” He says, his voice low. “But…but what was she like?”

**November (3).**

Lydia wakes up with someone’s arm thrown over her hips and warm breath tickling the back of her neck. With a groan, Lydia rolls over to find Malia looking up at her with tired, glittering eyes in the darkness.

“’W’at time ‘s’t?” Lydia asks, sleep making her tongue heavy in her mouth.

“Four…ish,” Malia whispers back.

“Didn’t stay with Isaac?” Lydia yawns.

“Fun to play with, not to eat,” Malia grins. Lydia laughs softly and nuzzles her head against Malia’s shoulder. Malia presses a kiss against Lydia’s forehead.

“Stiles is really great,” Malia says into Lydia’s hair, running a hand up Lydia’s back. Lydia groans.

“What the hell is a Stiles?” She scoffs.

“I can see why he’s your Match,” Malia continues, resting her hand on the dip in Lydia’s waist and squeezing slightly.

Lydia mutters something back, but she’s already falling asleep and the consonants all run together. She slips into sleep with her cheek against Malia’s collarbone and Malia’s shirt curled in her fist.

She dreams about Allison, smiling ghoulishly at her with cracked skin and blood on her hands.

Lydia does not eat at all the next day.

* * *

Thursday is one of those beautiful autumn days where the sun sits high and cheery, bathing everything in warm golden light. The air tastes crisp and the cool breeze that blows brings the smell of trees and dew and _life_ with it.

Lydia hates it. She wants heavy clouds and sheets of rain. She wants a cacophony of sound. She wants _chaos_. Instead, she puts on flawless make up and crowns her head with braids.

She slips out of the apartment before Malia wakes up. She mechanically takes notes through her classes, her back straight in her chair. She tries to smile when her teacher hands back their midterms and she sees her perfect score, but she can’t quite manage. She ignores the two text messages from Malia and the eight from Stiles (three of which are just series of random emojis) before sending each of them an identical text promising that she’ll still come watch Triskelion practice. Malia responds with a single heart. Stiles tells her that it would have strengthened the novels as a whole if the Golden Trio had been in different houses. Lydia types a two-paragraph response, but deletes it.

She returns to the apartment after her classes and trades in her heels for a pair of sensible flats. Malia walks through the door soon after and drops her bag heavily by the door, immediately pulling Lydia into a bear hug. She holds on tight, squeezing so hard that Lydia hears her back crack.

“You okay?” Malia asks, finally letting go. Lydia gives her a small smile and a nod.

“We should go,” Lydia says, her voice small.

“Are you sure you still want to go?” Malia says, her hands firmly planted on Lydia’s shoulders and her dark brown eyes earnest. “Say the word and we’ll curl up on the couch and eat Phish Food and watch Glee until we fall asleep.”

“You don’t even like Glee,” Lydia responds, letting out a short laugh.

“And I would take that hit for you,” Malia nods solemnly.

Lydia thinks of the first time she saw Malia: the new girl striding down the hallway of their high school with her long blond hair wild around her face like a lion’s mane and her eyes raging like fire.

“Who is _she_?” Allison whispered to Lydia, as Malia passed. Allison only had 17 days to live. Lydia curled her fingers in her hair, eyes sweeping over Malia’s loose movements and knee-high boots.

“No idea,” Lydia responded, turning to smile at Allison. “Let’s go found out.”

Allison had smiled back—that beautiful, wide smile framed with deep dimples that made Lydia’s heart lurch every time—and they had set off after Malia hand-in-hand.

Lydia shakes her head, Allison’s smile still dancing in her memory.

“No, let’s go,” She says, trying to smile as she slowly shrugs out of Malia’s grasp and grabs her purse from the dining room table. “It’ll be good to do something, you know?”

Malia smiles supportively, picking her bag up from the floor and slinging it over her shoulder. She takes Lydia by the hand as they leave the apartment and, though Lydia appreciates Malia’s warm hand, she can’t help but remember Allison’s cold, calloused fingers and they way they fit so neatly between her own.

\- - -

The practice space they use is in the storage basement of an old warehouse. They slip the owner $200 every month and he lets them fill the space with ratty couches and old gear. He even lets them tap into the power for free. Stiles suspects it might have something to do with the way Derek smiles at him when he casually slides the envelope of cash over. He really hopes they get to keep the space when Derek leaves.

Stiles has already been there for an hour, trying to make the place presentable. He’s already swept (three times) and rearranged the couches ( _twice_ ) and he’s just itching to organize the instruments but he knows that Scott has an ironclad rule against anyone touching his guitar (he moves Isaac’s bass two feet to the left just for laughs anyway). By the time Isaac and Scott finally show up, Stiles is too excited to play anything on the right rhythm. The sticks keep skittering out of his hands and tumbling to the floor.

“Okay, you _seriously_ need to get your shit together,” Isaac says after the fifth time Stiles drops the beat.

“He’s just nervous because Lydia’s coming,” Scott says before Stiles can respond. “But yeah, Stiles, you need to get your shit together.”

Stiles throws his hands up.

“I’m not _nervous_ ,” He scoffs with a pout.

“Nervous is your resting state,” Scott responds casually, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. “Also, the girls are here.”

Stiles stands up so suddenly that he knocks over his stool.

Kira walks in first, her guitar case slung over her shoulder. When Scott opens the door for her with a goofy grin across his face, she immediately stumbles and smacks into the doorframe. She walks past Scott with a red face, her head down. As Lydia steps into view, Stiles is struck by how _small_ she looks. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her in flats and the five-inch difference is jarring. Malia trails behind her, tall and bronze. They’re holding hands, but Lydia lets go once they step into the room. Stiles bounds out from behind his drum set and stops short of Lydia, searching her face. She gazes up at him, looking everywhere but his eyes.

“Are you okay?” He asks her, his voice low. He thinks about putting his hands on her shoulders, but crosses them tightly over his chest instead.

“I’m fine,” She says, too quickly. Stiles squints, but doesn’t respond.

“So we’re supposed to sit on _those_?” Lydia asks, staring at the couches with a wrinkled nose.

Stiles sticks a lip out in fake indignation.

“These are the best couches in the land, Lydia,” He says, smacking the arm of the couch for emphasis. He ignores the plume of dust that rises when he does so. “The _best couches in the land_.”

“How much area does this ‘land’ cover?” Lydia asks, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Because it doesn’t even seem to stretch as far as this room.”

Malia flops down on the couch, grinning up at Lydia as the worn cushions creak beneath her. She pats the spot next to her with a raised eyebrow. Lydia rolls her eyes, but perches herself on the edge of the seat. Stiles spends a moment too long looking at Lydia’s profile before he walks back to his drum set.

Isaac saunters over to the couch and sits on the arm, leaning towards Malia with a smile while plucking out the bass riff from Final Fantasy 7. Scott and Kira have their guitars out, both kneeling on the ground while Scott directs her on how to play their most popular song, “Why Are We Yelling Again?” Stiles starts beating out a steady rhythm to help, keeping his eyes on Lydia. She’s smiling thinly at Malia and Isaac’s conversation, but when she looks away her smile slowly fades. Stiles feels his heart stutter in his chest at the look on her face. She looks up at him and he winks at her, stumbling momentarily on the beat. She offers a small smile in return and shakes her head, averting her gaze.

They jam for twenty minutes while Scott teaches Kira the basics of their songs. Stiles steals glances at Lydia when he can and makes a few snide comments at Isaac to try and make her laugh. Finally, Scott and Kira stand and together, the four of them play the song from the beginning. Kira shreds like a master on the guitar, her fingers flying over the strings. She keeps pace perfectly, her eyes on Scott’s fingers, her lips pressed together in concentration. She fumbles near the end, struggling to catch up as the rhythm gets more erratic.

“I’m sorry,” She says with a grimace when the song ends.

“No, no you were great!” Scott responds, nodding enthusiastically. “The end is hard! You’ll get there, don’t worry.”

Kira smiles shyly, ducking her head to hide her blush.

Stiles almost misses what happens next.

Scott puts his pick between his teeth and shrugs out of his jacket, turning to toss it onto the free spot on the couch. As he turns back around to Kira, Lydia stands and lets out a choked scream. Her hand slaps over her mouth, her wide eyes staring directly at the red Mark on his bicep. Everyone freezes, their eyes on Scott. Scott looks confused, his mouth hanging slightly open. Malia rises slowly, her gaze flitting worriedly between Lydia and Scott.

“What’s going on?” Isaac finally asks.

Scott looks down at his Mark, comprehension dawning on his face. He reaches a hand up, his thumb touching the arrowhead gently.

“Did you know—?” He manages.

Malia tilts her head in his direction, focusing on Lydia as she breathes out a single word:

“ _Allison_.”

\- - -

Lydia turns on her heel and runs out the door, slamming it shut behind her. She feels like she’s going to be sick. She runs until she’s outside, gulping in deep breaths of chill air. Her face is red, her chest tight from the sobs threatening to spill out. She slams her back into the brick face of the building, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to steady her breathing. She remembers, vividly, kissing Allison’s Mark the day she left for the hunting trip that would take her life.

“It’ll just be for the weekend, Lydia,” She had laughed, brown eyes shining, leaning out the passenger side of her father’s car.

But it wasn’t, it was forever, and Lydia thought she would never see that arrowhead again until Scott McCall had turned around and there it was on his fucking arm.

Beside her, the door opens. Lydia’s head shoots up, expecting Malia or even Stiles. Instead, Scott emerges, his jacket back around his shoulders and Lydia’s coat in his hands. He walks up to her and stands uncomfortably on the pavement for a silent moment before he holds her coat out to her.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” He asks.

Lydia stares up at him. She tries to image Allison blushing when she looks up at Scott’s crooked jaw, her fingers bunched in the fabric of his shirt. Allison holding hands with Scott as they walk down the street, their shoulders knocking affectionately together. She tries to imagine Allison Argent loving Scott McCall.

She nods and takes her coat.

Scott leads the way, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. Lydia falls into step next to him, gaze towards the pavement. After four blocks she glances up at him. He’s clenching his jaw as he walks, his eyebrows drawn together. After two more blocks, Scott gently touches her arm and leads her into a small deli on the corner. Lydia takes a seat in a worn green chair next to the window while Scott goes to get them each something to drink. Lydia pulls out her phone and scrolls to her pictures, opening the folder that she never opens. When he returns holding two lattes with identical heart patterns sitting neatly in the foam, Lydia slides the phone across the table to him. He looks down at Allison’s face for the first time, his eyes glowing in the light of the screen.

Lydia watches Scott as he sees his Match for the first time, curling her hands tightly around the ceramic mug to keep them from shaking. Scott’s expression melts as he scans the small, blurry photo of Allison Lydia took one lazy Saturday they spent together. Allison is flooded in early morning sunlight, her sleep-tousled hair elegantly framing her face. Scott drinks her in, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he lets out a deep sigh. Finally, he shakes his head and pushes the phone back across the table to Lydia.

“I know this is hard,” He says, his voice low. “But…but what was she like?”

Lydia’s heart swells and aches inside of her chest. She takes a deep breath. The foam in her latte is melting, the heart distorting. Lydia clears her throat, trying to swallow the lump there. It’s been so long since Lydia has actually talked about Allison. She’s spent so much time talking _around_ Allison, tiptoeing the edges of her ghost because the weight of her name was too much to bear. But Scott McCall was Allison’s Match and he would never see the light in her eyes when she laughed and it just wasn’t fair.

“She was brave,” Lydia starts. “And kind. And she could be stubborn when she wanted to be. She liked green candy the best, she hummed when she cooked, and she made the worst spaghetti I’ve ever tasted but she was so proud of it that I told her it was the best spaghetti in the world.”

Lydia smiles sadly, remembering the chewy, undercooked pasta Allison had put in front of her. Tears form at the corners of her eyes.

“She loved her parents and her aunt and she loved dogs, but she never got to own one because her family moved a lot. She was terrible at Chemistry. She liked listening to folk music from the 70s when she was sad because she said it made her think of rain. She was so beautiful. Just…just so beautiful. She was…she was…”

She remembers Stiles at the park, his face open with old hurt in the yellow glow of the street lights.

  _“She was the_ sun _.”_

Lydia swallows hard. Tears have overflowed onto her cheeks. She reaches up to wipe them away with her sleeve. Scott immediately reaches over and wraps his hand around hers. He radiates heat, his palm pleasantly warm against her skin. He squeezes slightly and she squeezes back, grateful for the contact.

“You loved her a lot,” He says. Lydia nods, sniffing loudly as she tries to slow her crying.

“You would have loved her, too,” She replies, scrubbing her face again. Scott drops his gaze to his untouched latte, the heart melted away into an undecipherable blob.

“I know,” He mutters. With his free hand, he reaches up and rubs the spot on his arm where his Mark sits under the fabric, faded and red.

They sit like that, hands together, until their untouched lattes turn cold. Finally, prompted by three texts from Malia, Lydia suggests they head back to the practice space. Scott casually puts an arm around Lydia’s shoulders as they walk.

“You know,” Scott says, smirking down at Lydia. “Stiles will only be more adamant about fate now.”

Lydia rolls her eyes, but finds herself smiling anyway.

“There’s no such thing as fate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


	6. November (4).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you want to spend eight hours cooking a giant bird that we couldn’t possibly both finish? ‘Cause I sure didn’t. Besides, Cornish hens are delicious! And really, poultry is poultry is poultry.”
> 
> “Is that sort of like how sharks are sharks are sharks? Because sharks are fish, you know.”

**November (4).**

“It was _fate_.”

Stiles bounces excitedly in his spot, fingers drumming an uneven melody on the subway pole he and Scott are hanging on to. Scott sighs heavily and shakes his head, his eyes focusing on the faded couple on the Mark.com advertisement above them.

“I’ll admit that you have a point,” Scott concedes. Stiles whoops loudly, drawing startled looks from the other passengers on the train. Scott holds a hand up towards them in apology.

“What were the _odds_ , Scotty?” Stiles says, swinging around the pole and bumping into Scott’s back with his shoulder. Scott shrugs sullenly in response, his free hand thrust in his jacket pocket. Stiles immediately snaps to attention, reaching out to clasp Scott on the arm.

“But how are you doing?” He asks. Scott exhales and nods.

“I just…never thought I’d know,” Scott says slowly, his eyebrows knitting together. “And I’m glad that I know. But…”

He holds his hands up as he searches for the right words. The train starts to slow.

“It was easier not knowing. It was easier before I had a name for who I was missing.”

The train slides to a halt and Scott heads for the door with Stiles falling into step next to him. Stiles waits until they’re out on the sidewalk before he rests his arm across Scott’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“I’m glad you got to see her,” Stiles says. “I mean, I’m glad you know who she was. I know it’s harder, but knowing is always better.”

Scott nods, circling his hand around to rest on Stiles’s bony hip as they start the short walk back to their apartment.

“Hey, let’s order the extra-large cheesy meat supremeo from that Italian place you like,” Stiles says. “You’ll get so full that you won’t be able to eat the _amazing_ turkey Melissa will make next week.”

Scott smiles, squeezing Stiles’s hip.

“Are you sure you can’t come home for Thanksgiving?” He asks as they round the last corner towards their apartment.

Stiles groans, rolling his head back.

“Dude, don’t remind me,” He says. “I’m so far behind on my final projects. I just need to lock myself in the apartment and finish that 25-page paper Dr. Harris assigned. Maybe on Thanksgiving Day I’ll go out and stuff my face with Indian food.”

“Indian food always makes you sick,” Scott laughs. “You can’t handle spicy shit, man, just stop trying.”

“ _Never_ give up, _never_ surrender.”

As they reach the front to their building, Scott pulls his arm back and steps forward to open the door.

“Is that from Star War?” He asks casually over his shoulder. Stiles stops in his tracks, allowing the door to fall back and smack him on the ass. Scott turns around when he notices Stiles has stopped following.

“Are you fucking serious?” Stiles asks. “ _Star War_ , Scott? Fucking _Star War_? I’m ignoring the fact that you’ve never seen the cinematic masterpiece that is _Galaxy Quest_ because _fucking Star War_ , _Scott_?”

Scott shrugs, a lopsided grin wide across his face.

“Sorry,” He says simply, heading for the elevator and mashing the “UP” button. Stiles shakes his head and joins Scott, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Fucking _Star War_ ,” He mumbles under his breath as the elevator arrives and they clamber in. “I should hit you.”

“Have you talked to Lydia?” Scott asks, his tone light. Stiles narrows his eyes at Scott’s change of subject.

“Not yet,” He says. “Thought I’d call her tonight.”

Scott nods in response.

“How was she? I mean, was she okay?” Stiles prods.

Scott shrugs.

“She was surprised, mostly, I think. It was hard for her. She and Allison were close.”

The elevator reaches its destination and the doors creak open. The boys step out into the dimly lit hallway.

“Like, _close_ close?”

\- - -

Lydia turns her phone over in her hand as the screen flicks to black for the third time. She thinks, again, about just shoving it under her pillow and putting her head down, but she thinks of Allison’s smile and steels her nerve. She takes a deep breath and makes the call.

One ring.

_Maybe this is a mistake._

Two rings.

_This is definitely a mistake._

Three ri—

“Hello?”

“ _Bonjour, Monsieur Argent._ _Ça va?_ ”

Mr. Argent chuckles.

“You have a perfect accent, as always, Lydia.”

“ _Merci beaucoup_. How has today been for you?”

“Ah, you know. Trying to stay busy.”

“Yeah…”

Lydia plays absently with the fabric of her blanket, rubbing the cotton against her palm. She imagines Mr. Argent standing in front of the marble fireplace that featured so prominently in Allison’s pictures of their vacation home in France. She wonders if he has removed the large caribou head that hung over the mantle. After the accident, he worked hard to remove all remnants of the hunter he had been, quietly shutting all of his weapons away in storage and spending most of his time with his remaining family overseas. She wonders how she can tell him. If she has it in her to peel open this wound.

“So, Lydia,” Mr. Argent asks after a short stretch of silence. “I’m not complaining, but what made you call? You’ve never checked in on me before.”

She swallows hard.

“I…I met Allison’s Match today.”

“You…what?”

“I met him earlier, but I didn’t know he was Allison’s Match until today. He’s got her arrowhead on his arm.”

Lydia can almost hear the synapses in his brain firing an ocean away as he processes the information.

“How did you meet him?” Mr. Argent finally asks.

Lydia lets out a short laugh.

“He and my Match are best friends. They grew up together.”

Mr. Argent laughs, too.

“What’re the odds?” He mutters.

“One in 960,000, at least.”

“I’ll take your word for it. So who is this guy?”

“His name is Scott. He sings and plays guitar in this local band. Covered in tattoos. He wants to be a vet. He’s nice. I like him.”

“Would _I_ like him?”

“Oh, no. But Allison would’ve loved him.”

“That’s what matters.”

“I just…wanted you to know, Mr. Argent.”

“I’m glad you told me, Lydia. It’s nice to know that even though she’s gone, she’s still finding ways to surprise us.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. Lydia sets the phone gently on the pillow beside her and curls up on her side, tucking her hands underneath her cheek. By the time Malia slips in an hour later and buries her chin into the curve of Lydia’s neck, she’s already asleep. She will decide later that it’s the best sleep she’s gotten in weeks.

\- - -

Scott leaves for the airport at six in the morning on Wednesday. Stiles sees him off from their doorway, waving him down the hall in his fleece pajama bottoms and an old Glassjaw t-shirt he found at Goodwill for a dollar. When the doors close on the elevator, Stiles pulls out his phone. Lydia picks up almost immediately.

“You are _kidding_ me, Stilinski.”

“Hey Lydia, how’s your day so far?”

Stiles heads back inside and shuts the door behind him.

“Oh, well it started with this asshole waking me up at _six in the morning_ on the first day off I’ve had in _months_ so I’d have to say not too well.”

Stiles snickers as he paces a small oval around the stained couch in their living room.

“Does that mean you’re staying in the city for the holiday?”

“Yes, _Mściwòj_. I have three majors and a 4.0 GPA, of _course_ I’m staying in the city.”

“Ouch, you First Named me. You must really be mad.”

“I’m going back to bed.”

“Wait! What’re you doing on Thanksgiving?”

“Writing a paper on magnetohydrodynamics. Maybe I’ll order Chinese food.”

“Right, but instead of _that_ , how about I come over and cook you a proper Thanksgiving meal and we watch cartoons?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone. Stiles stops in his tracks, his foot hovering in mid-air as he waits for her answer.

“Don’t you dare bring cranberry sauce.”

Stiles jumps in his place, sweeping down his arm in an exaggerated fist pump. He straightens up quickly, thankful that no one was around to see it.

“But Lydia, cranberry sauce is an _integral part_ of the Thanksgiving experience!”

“No one actually eats the cranberry sauce. It just sits there uselessly until someone scrapes it into the garbage.”

“It sets the mood! What is Thanksgiving without cranberry sauce?!”

“Better, Stiles. It’s better without the cranberry sauce.”

“Look, just text me your address. I’ll show up— _with cranberry sauce_ —at one tomorrow afternoon?”

“Fine. But you’re going to be the one to scrape it into the garbage when neither of us eats it.”

“Deal.”

Stiles hangs up, his mind powering into overdrive. He’s still for a brief moment before he leaps into action, tearing off his pajama bottoms as he runs towards his room to change into jeans. He stumbles over the threshold and tumbles to the ground with his pants around his ankles but he quickly stands up again, head spinning with thoughts of cranberry sauce and pecan pie.

\- - -

When Lydia opens the door at 1:18 on Thanksgiving Day, she’s greeted by a wall of Tupperware containers and swinging plastic bags. Stiles clamors through with a grunt, heading to the small dining room table and depositing the Tupperware there.

“You’re late,” Lydia says as she closes the door. Stiles spins around to face her, his nose red from the cold. His bomber hat is crooked on his head.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” He says breathlessly, taking the bags to the kitchen. “I was trying to decide if I should cook the stuffing at my place or wait ‘til I got here and time got away from me.”

He takes a brief moment to walk the length of the kitchen, his hands hovering over the counters.

“What did you decide?” Lydia asks, walking over to the dining table and looking through the containers.

“It won’t take too long, I can do it here.”

Stiles nods, apparently pleased with the state of her kitchen.

“So where’s Malia?” He asks.

“Washington state. It’s where her dad lives now. What’s in here?” Lydia taps the top of the closest Tupperware.

Stiles walks over, sliding his hat off his head and tossing it on the table.

“That one is green bean casserole. There’s mashed potatoes in the other one, the long one over there is pecan pie muffins and pumpkin spice scones—I didn’t want there to be toomuch pie so muffins made more sense—and mac and cheese is somewhere in here. I still need to cook the stuffing and the Cornish hens and the pudding and the ham. Do you like ham? Maybe I don’t need the ham if we have hens. I have it anyway.”

He says this all so quickly that it takes Lydia a second to process all of it. He’s practically vibrating with energy as he pulling the rest of the ingredients out of the bags he brought with him except for a single bag that he shoves to the side.

“Is that all?” She asks finally, smirking up at him.

“And the eggs! Deviled eggs. Secret family recipe. You’re gonna love them.”

He reaches deep into his pocket and retrieves a small Bluetooth speaker in the shape of the Deathstar, setting it on the table before shedding his coat and depositing it on the back of the nearest chair.

“And the cranberry sauce?”

Stiles freezes, his face going suddenly pale. His mouth drops open.

“ _Fuck_ , I forgot the cranberry sauce.”

Lydia laughs as Stiles puts his head in his hands.

“I can’t _believe_ I did that,” He says, his voice muffled.

“It’s good, it’s better this way.”

Stiles straightens up and frowns at her before he turns and preheats the oven.

“Do you need any help?” Lydia asks, wandering towards the kitchen.

“Nah,” He responds. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’ve got this.”

He presses a few buttons on his screen and Barry Manilow starts to croon from the speaker. Lydia raises an eyebrow.

“Barry Manilow? Seriously?”

Stiles responds by beginning to sing loudly along as he fills a pot with water and puts in on the stove. He wiggles his ass as he sings and Lydia giggles.

“ _You can be my best fri-i-i-iend, I can be your right a-a-a-arm_ —Oh! Lydia!” He spins around to face her. “I forgot to tell you the best part!”

“Tell me the best part, Stiles.”

Stiles reaches into the final bag left on the counter and pulls out a glass bottle with a wide grin.

“I brought bourbon.”

* * *

Three hours later Lydia is feeling warm and toasty from the alcohol. She sits on a chair nearby, watching Stiles work with a tumbler half-full of bourbon cupped in her hands. The kitchen smells pleasantly like Cornish hens. Barry is still belting his smooth rock from the small Deathstar. Stiles mouths the words as he works on his deviled eggs, singing along during his favorite parts. His eyes glitter from the alcohol.

“So we’re going to stick with Manilow?” Lydia asks with a smile as “Mandy” comes on for the fourth time. Stiles glances up at her from his eggs.

“We are absolutely going to stick with Barry,” He responds. “It’s a Thanksgiving tradition.”

“Is it? The only Thanksgiving tradition that I remember was the three years in a row that dad got drunk and flipped his plate.”

Stiles shakes his head, a small smile pulling on his lips.

“Every year on Thanksgiving dinner, my mom would play Barry Manilow while she cooked,” He says, his voice low. “She had these old records and she’d let me flip it when it got to the end. She even got Dad to make me this little step-ladder so I could reach it and she painted lyrics from his old song, ‘I Am Your Child’ all over it.”

“That sounds really nice,” Lydia says. Stiles nods, focusing on his eggs.

“I outgrew it before she died. It’s still in my closet back home.”

Lydia pauses and takes a sip from her drink.

“Is she the one who taught you how to cook?” She continues tentatively.

“No. Well, some things. She taught me how to make these eggs and like, spaghetti and other simple things. But after she died, Dad didn’t really know what to do so I started doing most of the cooking. Scott’s mom, Melissa, helped out a lot.”

Stiles finishes the eggs with a flourish of spices and wipes his hands off on a dishtowel.

“You want to hand me the Tupperware?” He asks, checking on the hens in the oven.

“Oh, _now_ you want my help,” Lydia says, gathering up the containers and carrying them the short distance to the kitchen. Stiles takes them from her with a smile, his hand lightly brushing her arm in the exchange. Lydia feels goosebumps rise on the back of her neck.

“I’m almost finished in here,” He says with a satisfied nod. “Do you want to put on cartoons now?”

Lydia rolls her eyes, but stands and heads for the living room.

“You’re telling me that you’re a grown man who still watches cartoons?” Lydia calls, turning on her television and scrolling to Netflix.

“If you tell me you don’t still watch cartoons then you’re a _liar_ , Lydia Martin.”

Lydia smirks, scrolling over to her favorite cartoon from the ‘90s and pressing play. Stiles picks up his phone and turns off the music. He walks out of the kitchen and stands next to Lydia, swaying his hip out to knock gently into her.

“Solid choice,” He says with a grin.

“I have excellent taste,” Lydia responds, knocking Stiles back.

“Must be why I’m you’re Match,” Stiles winks. Lydia lets out an exaggerated, exasperated sigh. Stiles laughs and walks back towards the kitchen.

“Want me to bring you a plate?” He asks. Lydia plops down on her couch, pulling her feet up and dragging the coffee table closer.

“Only if you also bring the bourbon.”

Stiles laughs. Lydia turns and looks over the back of the couch at him. He’s busy with the food, his back to her. The thin fabric of his shirt hugs the muscles of his shoulders, rippling as he moves. Lydia lets herself drink in the image of Stiles Stilinski in her kitchen, preparing a plate just for her of hot, homemade food. She feels a tug in her heart that catches her breath for just a second. She quickly spins around and hunkers down in her seat, focusing on the television with narrowed eyes, blaming the alcohol for her momentary weakness and almost, _almost_ believing it.

* * *

“ _Jesus_ those were the best deviled eggs I’ve ever had,” Lydia says after her plate is scraped clean.

“I know, they’re pretty great,” Stiles responds around his last mouthful of mashed potatoes, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Really, this was really good, Stiles. You did really good.”

Stiles shrugs, hiding this smile with the back of his hand.

“It was nothing,” He says, wiping his hands on his napkin and leaning back into the couch with a contented sigh. Lydia leans into him slightly, nudging him with her shoulder.

“Well, I’m thankful that you came into my apartment and liquored me up and fed me a bunch of delicious food.”

Stiles laughs, one of his arms sliding into place behind her on the couch, his hand resting on her shoulder.

“Well _I’m_ thankful that you decided to shirk your school responsibilities to let me liquor you all up and feed you decent food.”

Lydia giggles, hyper-aware of the warmth radiating from Stiles’s hand. She shifts slightly towards him, the tips of her knees resting on his thighs.

“Admit it,” He smiles down at her. His amber eyes warm from the bourbon and the food. “You could have had a much worse Match.”

Lydia scoffs.

“I _guess_ ,” She says. “Though maybe a different Match would have made me turkey on Thanksgiving instead of Cornish hens.”

“Did _you_ want to spend eight hours cooking a giant bird that we couldn’t possibly both finish? ‘Cause I sure didn’t. Besides, Cornish hens are delicious! And really, poultry is poultry is poultry.”

“Is that sort of like how sharks are sharks are sharks? Because sharks are fish, you know.”

Stiles squeezes her slightly, trying to frown but laughing instead.

“Sure, just like that.”

They’re so close now, her legs resting over his, his arm around her shoulders. Lydia looks up at him, her eyes lazily tracing the pattern of freckles across his cheeks. He stares back, his gaze darting over her features like he’s trying to memorize every line of her face. Her heart skips a beat when she locks onto his stare. Suddenly, everything seems to still. Stiles takes in a breath and holds it. He reaches up gently, moving a strand of hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear. His hand lingers, the back of his fingers trailing down the curve of her jaw.

Slowly, he leans in.

Lydia thinks that maybe she should stop him. She thinks that kissing Stiles Stilinski on Thanksgiving is probably a bad idea, especially because she doesn’t believe in fate and even though they have matching Marks it doesn’t mean that she should ride off into the sunset with him. But, he feels so nice under her palm and she can’t help the way her heart is pounding it’s erratic beat in her chest. She lets her eyes drop closed, her head tilted up towards him. The tip of his nose grazes her own, his breath warm against her own as his lips move forward, closer, closer—

“The Imperial March” trumpets loudly from Stiles’s pocket and he freezes, their faces an inch from each other. He lets out a deep breath from his nose and groans, pulling back and retrieving his phone from his pocket.

“Hey-y-y, Daddy-o,” He says as greeting without looking at the screen. “Impeccable timing, as always.”

He keeps his arm around Lydia, looking down at her as he speaks. His face is flushed.

“What?” He continues, frowning at whatever his father says to him. “Of course I’m not _drunk_ I don’t even know what alcohol _is_ I can’t believe you’d accuse me of such _debauchery_. I might not even come home for Christmas if you keep making baseless accusations.”

Lydia stands as he talks, gathering up the dirty dishes and taking them into the kitchen to deposit in the sink. She grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator, swallowing it down quickly to try and cool the fire underneath her skin. She finishes the bottle as Stiles ends his conversation and he stands, walking over to her in the kitchen.

“So, that was my dad,” He says, leaning back against the counter. Lydia pulls out another bottled water and hands it to him. He takes it with a nod.

“I figured that out from the ‘Hey Daddy-o,’” Lydia responds.

Stiles laughs awkwardly, looking at his feet.

“So, I was wondering what you were doing for Christmas?”

Lydia shrugs.

“I was just going to stay here. My mom is going on a cruise with her boyfriend, Dad is going overseas with his wife. Malia said I could go to Washington with her, but I thought that might be weird.”

“Would it be equally as weird if I invited you to come back to Beacon Hills with me for Christmas?” He asks, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

Lydia pauses.

“You don’t have to say yes now,” He says quickly. “But you know, me and my Dad have dinner on Christmas Eve and there are presents, of course, and we go to Scott’s, too, and Melissa makes the _best_ ham I’ve ever had in my life. It’s just—it’s just an idea.”

Lydia considers another Christmas spent alone in her apartment, the snow falling outside and reruns of Friends playing on the television. She thinks of the presents that always arrive a few days late and the tossed salad she makes herself. She can’t remember the last time Christmas actually felt like _Christmas_. She makes her decision.

“Okay,” Lydia responds with a brief nod.

“Okay you’ll come? Or okay you’ll think about it?”

“Okay, I’ll come. I mean, I’m not doing anything else. I might as well have good food.”

Stiles smiles wide and quickly moves to pull her into a hug. Lydia squeaks in surprise as his arms circle her and he lifts her a foot off the ground before he puts her back down. He swoops in and presses a kiss to her cheek, almost directly on her Mark.

“It’ll be _so_ much fun, I promise,” He says excitedly, stepping back with his hands gesturing widely. “There’s the Christmas tree lighting downtown and they have the Boulevard of Lights—you’ll love it, it’s amazing!”

Lydia laughs.

“We’ll see,” She says simply, walking past him and back into the living room. She takes a seat on her armchair, draping her legs over the side. Stiles pads after her a moment later and seats himself on the couch, the bottle of water still clutched in his hand and the smile still wide across his face.

They sit like that, swapping stories and watching cartoons until the sun goes down and Stiles decides he should head home. They exchange goodbyes at the front door, Stiles pulling her into a quick hug before he bounds down the hall and disappears around the corner. Lydia shuts the door and closes her eyes, leaning her back against the wood. She can still feel Stiles’s fingertips on her jaw, his lips on her cheek, his hands on her shoulder. She lets herself feel, for a _moment_ , what it’s like to adore Stiles Stilinski.

But then she pulls her focus back and pushes off from the door, heading for her bedroom. She still had a paper to write, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


	7. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What do you want the Marks to mean?” Lydia asks, her voice soft. Stiles trails his fingers up the arc of her neck, brushing back the hair over her shoulder. Lydia’s breath hitches as a pleasant shiver rolls up her spine. Stiles notices, his eyes glinting as he pulls back, letting his hand drag lightly down her arm. He takes a deep breath, searching her face as he thinks of an answer.

**December.**

“—and when you think about it, giving Spock a Mark in the reboot was such a _bad move_ because the appeal of the Vulcans was the fact that they didn’t _have_ them and, more importantly, they didn’t _want_ them—“

“Stiles, it’s been fifty minutes. I don’t care about Star Trek. I don’t care about Vulcans and Klingoids—“

“Kling _ons_ , Lydia, I can’t bel—“

“—Kling _oids_ , or whether Kirk would hold his own against Q. I _don’t_ _care_.”

Stiles whirls around in his seat, his hand flying out and smacking Scott in the chest. Scott jumps, startled out of his nap.

“ _Did you hear what she said?_ ” Stiles asks in an affronted tone, loud enough for the flight attendant to snap his head around to look at them.

Scott raises an eyebrow and pulls out an ear bud.

“…What?”

“She hates Star Trek!”

Scott pauses.

“That’s the one with the teddy bears in the woods?” He finally asks.

Stiles looks as though he’s been slapped. Lydia hides her smile behind her fist. She thinks Scott might be riling him up on purpose.

“ _Et tu_ , Scotty?”

Scott shrugs, an apologetic grin across his features.

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and hunkers down in his seat as much as he can. His knees knock heavily into the seat in front of him. The unhappy businesswoman sitting there glares backwards at him through the small crack between the seats. Stiles raises a few fingers in apology, pouting.

“I can’t believe I’m trapped in a metal cylinder hurtling through the sky with you two _heathens_ ,” He scoffs.

“At least I’m not a nerd,” Lydia quips, turning back to the book she was trying to read before Stiles started his Star Trek rant.                                                                                                                               

Above them, the “fasten seatbelt” sign dings on.

“Well, it looks like you won’t be trapped in here with us for much longer,” Scott says, stretching his arms out in front of him and flexing his neck.

Stiles begins to tap his foot, swearing under his breath that he’ll never talk to either of them ever again.

He lasts three minutes and twenty-four seconds.

“What are you reading?”

Stiles leans into Lydia, pressing his shoulder against hers. Lydia rolls her eyes without looking up from her book. Stiles thinks he feels her relax against him, but decides it might be wishful imagining. Lydia had kept her distance since Thanksgiving, never letting herself get as close to Stiles as she had that day on the couch. Stiles had noticed, but he decided not to push. Even if he could still remember the look on her face as he had leaned in to kiss her and the swoop of his heart when he thought she would let him.

“I’m reading about the _Titanic_ ,” Lydia says, turning a page.

Stiles leans in close.

“I hear it sinks in the end,” He whispers loudly.

Lydia tips her gaze over to him, eyes narrowed. He sticks his tongue between his teeth and raises his eyebrows, smiling wide. Lydia shoves him off with her arm and leans the opposite way in her seat, putting three inches of space between them. Stiles pulls back reluctantly.

“Do you always read books about maritime disasters when you’re 35,000 feet in the air?”

Lydia nods, turning a page before she’s had time to read the whole thing.

“Every time.”

“Why?”

“Because it takes my mind off the fact that I’m trapped in a metal cylinder hurtling 35,000 above the ground.”

She turns another page.

“Lydia Middle-Name-Unknown Martin…are you scared of flying?”

Lydia snaps the book shut and turns the full force of her glare onto Stiles. He just laughs in response.

The captain’s voice crackles over the speakers, alerting the passengers of the plane’s upcoming descent. Lydia sighs and puts her book away, pressing her palms flat against her arm rests.

“I just don’t like landings,” She says, eyes narrowing as she carefully avoids looking out the small window next to her. The plane dips, angling steadily to the left as it goes. Lydia clutches the armrest tightly, pressing her lips together as the plane dips again. Stiles hesitates, then reaches over and covers her hand with his own. She tenses slightly, then flips her hand around to squeeze his fingers tightly with her own. Stiles doesn’t even try to hide the smile that stretches across his cheeks.

\- - -

Stiles doesn’t stop talking when his father is around, Lydia realizes on the drive from the airport. From the moment they had seen the Sheriff waiting for them next to his beat-up, brown SUV, Stiles had barely paused to take breath. Lydia thinks she should find it annoying. Instead, she watches the way Stiles’s eyes shine when he looks at his Dad and the smile that won’t leave his face and she feels an unfamiliar warmth settle over her chest. The Sheriff seems content to let Stiles chatter, responding only when needed. From their brief interactions in the car, Lydia feels like he must be a man of extraordinary patience.

“He’ll wear himself out soon,” Scott leans over to tell her, his voice low enough to not be heard over Stiles’s story of the show at Deucalion’s from the front seat. “He gets like this every time.”

The Sheriff takes a right and Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital comes into view. Scott grabs his bag from the floorboard, swinging it over his shoulder.

“Are you still coming over for Christmas dinner?” Scott asks as they pull up to the entrance to the hospital.

“Like I’d miss Melissa’s Christmas ham,” Stiles scoffs from the front seat. “It’s like you don’t even know me, Scotty.”

Scott laughs, swinging his door open. Before he goes, he gives Lydia an awkward one-armed hug.

“If they drive you too crazy, my house is just two blocks away,” He says with an uneven smile before he ducks out of the car. “Thanks for the ride, Sheriff!”

He shuts the car door with his hip and starts jogging towards the entrance.

“Hey, I resent that!” Stiles shouts out the closed window towards Scott’s retreating back. The Sheriff chuckles and starts to drive away.

“You okay back there, Lydia?” He asks as they turn back onto the main road, his eyes shifting to the rearview mirror.

“So far, so good,” She says back, smiling wide in the way she reserves for parents. Parents always fell in love with Lydia Martin. Jackson’s mother still sent her a card every year for her birthday though Lydia hadn’t spoken to her son in years.

“Dad, did you get—“

“Don’t be rude, Stiles, I was having a conversation with Lydia.”

Lydia laughs as Stiles drops his mouth open in fake outrage.

“So how is school going, Lydia?” The Sheriff asks, a pleasant smile across his face. “Stiles tells me you’re some kind of genius.”

“Some kind, for sure,” Lydia responds. “I’m holding onto my 4.0 GPA despite your son’s efforts to distract me with his plethora of animal facts.”

Stiles snorts.

“Whatever, one day your vast reserve of cephalopodan knowledge will come in handy,” He grumbles from his seat.

The Sheriff reaches out and ruffles Stiles’s hair. Stiles squawks, beating back the Sheriff’s hand with erratic movements of his arms.

“I said don’t be rude, kid.”

* * *

The Stilinski house smells like cedar wood and sunshine and _boy_. The furniture all looks at least twenty years old, the worn leather chairs flanking the couch cracked and discolored from use. Framed photos line the walls: a younger Sheriff holding a baby Stiles in his arms; a dark haired woman with sparkling amber eyes posing with Stiles on his first day of kindergarten; Stiles and Scott wearing matching maroon robes with high school diplomas clutched in their fists. It’s strange, Lydia thinks, to be in a house that is so clearly a _home_. She remembers the stark lines of her old house, the generic artwork her mom had hung in an attempt to cheer the place up in the wake of her divorce. It hadn’t worked.

Stiles stands in the middle of his living room and takes a deep breath, his long fingers stretching out as though he can physically touch the feeling in the air. Lydia watches him as his eyes roam over the old wooden TV stand and the dusty elementary school photos sitting on top. He looks different standing there, bathed in yellow light from the kitchen. Younger, maybe. More open than he looks in the grays of the city. Lydia likes him like this, she thinks. He spins towards Lydia, beaming widely, and holds out a hand. The cog on his palm seems to glow even brighter than usual.

“Come on,” He says. “I’ll show you the guest bedroom.”

Lydia pauses, considering, then reaches forward and takes his hand in her own. His palm is warm against hers, his Mark thumping strongly against her skin. He stills briefly, looking down at Lydia Martin standing hand-in-hand with him in the living room he had grown up in. Something passes over his face. He turns and leads her up the stairs.

Stiles gives her a short tour of the second floor: the guest bedroom where she’s sleeping, the bathroom across the hall, the tightly shut door of his father’s bedroom, and, lastly, Stiles’s bedroom in the corner of the house facing the street. Lydia looks over the faded posters of pop-punk bands stuck to the walls, smiling slightly at the clutter on the small desk in the room. She raises an eyebrow at the large white board leaning against the wall, but doesn’t mention it. Stiles watches her take stock of the room, feeling vulnerable in a strange way. He’s reminded of the time he had shown the first song he ever wrote to Scott way back in the ninth grade, his hands squeezed together while Scott’s eyes travelled down the messy scrawl.

Finally, Lydia nods, a small smile on her face.

“It’s very… _you_ ,” She says.

“What does that mean?” Stiles laughs nervously.

“Your desk is messy, but your bed is made,” She says sagely, nodding towards the desk.

“Lydia…do you not make your bed?”

Lydia makes a face.

“When you make your bed you’re just sealing in all of the dead skin cells and sweat you produce in your sleep. It’s better for you to leave it unmade.”

Stiles stares incredulously at her.

“You’re crazy,” He says.

Lydia scowls at him.

“It’s not crazy, it’s science,” She says.

“It’s _crazy_. You should make your bed.”

Lydia huffs, putting her hands on her hips.

“I will _not_ ,” She says, turning and walking back out into the hallway.

Stiles watches her trot down the hallway towards her room, his brain quickly running through the litany of arguments that he plans to yell at her as he follows. All of them stick in his throat when she pauses in her doorway and slips her heels off, leaving them just inside her door. Her bare feet leave small indents in the rug as she heads for the stairs. Stiles tries for just a moment to understand the strange comfort he feels watching Lydia Martin walk through his house with no shoes on, but then he shakes his head and follows after her, shouting about how making the bed is good for combating allergies as he goes.

\- - -

Stiles cooks a simple dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread while the Sheriff and Lydia clear a small space in the corner of the living room for a Christmas tree. Lydia can hear Barry Manilow crooning lowly from the kitchen. Lydia remembers watching Stiles make her Thanksgiving dinner over the back of her couch, how nice it had been to watch him cook. She lets herself smile. The Sheriff hauls the last chair out of the way, scooting it over to a spot next to the front door.

“That should do it,” He says, wiping his hands together as he surveys the small area they’ve cleared.

“So, where’s the tree?” Lydia asks him.

The Sheriff points to a small cupboard under the stairs and starts walking towards it. He digs around for a moment and eventually hauls out a white, four-foot tall Christmas tree with faded red tinsel sticking to it in chunks. Lydia quickly covers her mouth as she lets out a short burst of laughter.

“Are you laughing at our tree?” The Sheriff asks with raised eyebrows, setting the monstrosity down in the corner and starting to bend the branches down into a more arborescent shape. As he goes, pieces of the tree flake off and flutter to the floor, leaving gaping empty spots. The Sheriff plugs in the string of lights wrapped around tree enthusiastically. About half of them blink on.

“See, that’s not so bad,” He says, hands on his hips. The tree responds by dropping a fist-sided clump of tinsel onto the ground. Lydia stifles her giggles into her palm.

“Don’t laugh at it, Lydia, you’re giving it performance anxiety,” Comes Stiles’s voice from behind her. Lydia looks over her shoulder. He’s leaning against the doorframe, a dishcloth between his hands. The lights of the living room cast peculiar shadows over his face. His eyes look brighter, the hollows of his cheek deeper, his smile wider. Lydia feels her breath catch, just for a moment. Just long enough to notice.

“When you’re done belittling our majestic tree, dinner is ready,” He says, his gaze running quickly over her face before he turns and heads back towards the kitchen.

Later, as Lydia watches Stiles and his father hang ornaments haphazardly all over the shabby tree, she’ll wonder if this is what home should feel like.

* * *

Lydia jumps awake at 3:26 AM when she hears Stiles screaming.

She rips the sheets off her legs and tears into the hallway, almost slamming into the Sheriff as he barrels past her and into Stiles’s bedroom. Lydia makes it to the doorway before she freezes, staring at the scene in front of her.

Stiles is thrashing around on his bed, the blankets thrown to the floor. His mouth is stretched open in a scream, the sound grating loud and raw from his throat. His hands claw violently at the air, trying to find purchase on something only he can see. The Sheriff quickly takes a place behind Stiles, pressing Stiles’s back against his chest and putting a firm arm over Stiles’s arms to stop them from thrashing. The screaming stutters into a sob as Stiles opens his eyes, wild and searching the darkness in his room for whatever monsters were haunting him in his sleep. His hand comes to rest on the back of his father’s neck.

“S-sorry,” Stiles gasps, his voice tight. “It’s being here—I’m sorry, I’m s-so—“

He looks up and sees Lydia standing just outside of his room. As she watches, shame colors his expression. He turns his head, gently pushing his father away with shaking hands.

“I’m fine,” He croaks. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. Go back to bed, Dad.”

He sniffs once, bringing his hand up to swipe at his face. The Sheriff places a supportive hand on Stiles’s shoulder, squeezing slightly before he stands.

Lydia casts a short glance over Stiles’s hunched figure before she steps back into the guest bedroom, closing the door behind her.

She waits, leaning against the wood. She can hear the Sheriff walk back to his room, the floorboards groaning underneath him as he goes. Lydia remembers her own panic attacks after Allison died; the cold weight squeezing on her chest until she forgot how to breathe or think or fight. She thinks of Malia sneaking into her room every night for a month, her lithe frame slipping through Lydia’s window and crawling under the covers. She remembers the comfort it brought her, to have the warmth of someone who cared against her.

Her feet move.

She opens his door quietly. A small slice of moonlight illuminates his bed. He’s picked his blanket up off of the floor and pulled it up to his shoulder. He shifts, watching her approach his bed in the dark with gleaming eyes. She pauses as her knees knock into his mattress, looking down at him looking up at her.

They pass a moment in silence.

Finally, Lydia gently picks the edge of the blanket up and slips under it. She presses into him, her arm threading over his chest, her nose touching the curve of his neck. She inhales the scent of him: cedar and sweat and something else she can’t quite place. Stiles freezes against her for a moment, then cautiously places a trembling hand on top of her arm. He tilts his face, his lips coming to rest on the top of her head. His mouth is moving, mouthing words Lydia can’t make out. She hugs him, burying her face into his t-shirt and shutting her eyes.

She waits until he stops shaking beside her to give in to sleep.

* * *

Lydia wakes up alone, the blanket tucked neatly around her shoulders. The spot next to her is still warm. As she blinks the sleep from her eyes, she studies the lazy sunlight streaming through the window. She follows a sunbeam to the open door of the closet, where the single corner of a small blue step stool is illuminated. From the bed, she can see neatly printed lyrics painted on it in faded orange. Lydia smiles at the stool, sitting up and letting out a small yawn. The bed is so cozy, it’s almost a shame to get up, but Lydia can smell coffee coming from downstairs and it calls to her like a siren song. She lets out a soft groan and stands, stretching her arms over her head as she shuffles down the hall.

She freezes when she steps into the living room, pressing the heels of her hand into her eyes and blinking twice. A six-foot evergreen occupies the space where the aging white tree had sat just the night before. White lights twinkle softly between the ornaments, causing the wrapping paper on the twelve presents beneath the tree to glitter. Set atop the whole display is a single, glowing star, the colors changing periodically from white to red to green. Lydia watches the colors change until a clatter from the kitchen pulls her attention away.

She finds Stiles standing in front of the oven, his hair pushed over at an odd angle. He’s got a pan and a small pot going on the burner and a carton of eggs open next to him. He’s wearing basketball shorts and Lydia notices for the first time that the calf of his left leg is covered in tattoos. She can make out Darth Vader’s mask and the Millennium Falcon in a sea of space.

“What happened to the tree?” Lydia asks, taking a seat at the small dining table. There’s already a cup of coffee sitting in front of the place mat and she pulls it up and takes a sip. It’s exactly how she likes it, though she doesn’t quite know how he could have figured it out. He doesn’t turn around, but she thinks she sees him smile.

“It was a Christmas miracle,” He says, cracking an egg and dropping it into the skillet on the right. “We get one every year.”

His voice is low and stilted. Lydia wonders if he’s embarrassed from the night before. She pulls her legs up and crosses them beneath her, watching Stiles cook in silence. She likes watching him cook, she decides. She likes the way he holds himself with his hand wrapped around the handle of the skillet. He flips something in the pan, humming to himself as it sizzles.

“No Manilow this morning?” Lydia asks. She hears him breathe out a laugh.

“Barry’s more of a nighttime crooner,” He replies. He pulls down two plates from an overhead cabinet, the hem of his shirt riding up and revealing a sliver of skin. Lydia’s eyes linger too long.

“Where’s your dad?” She says, clearing her throat slightly.

“There was some kind of emergency last night at the station, so they called him in. He said he’d meet us at Scott’s.”

He finishes up his business in the pans, moving the food to the plates next to him and cutting off the burners. When he’s done arranging the meal, he picks up the dishes and turns to Lydia. His eyes seem duller than usual, his face more pale. When he sets the food in front of her, Lydia smiles at him.

“You made me an egg in the nest,” She says. The yolk is set perfectly in the middle of the bread, flanked by a small helping of grits and half an orange.

“No, I made you an egg in the _basket_ ,” Stiles responds, sitting across from her at the table with his own egg in the nest in front of him.

“You made me an _egg in the nest_ ,” Lydia repeats, glaring up at Stiles as she cracks her yolk to let it seep into the bread around it.

“I’m going to take it back if you keep talking like that, Lydia.”

He smiles up at her, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He still can’t look her in the face. Lydia chews on her food thoughtfully for a moment before she reaches out a foot and sets it delicately on his knee. Stiles pauses, his fork hanging in mid-air as he looks down at her sock. She raises her other leg and crosses her ankles, leaning back in her seat as she watches him. Stiles looks up at her now, finally meeting her gaze.

“You wanna talk about it?” She asks, tilting her head slightly. Stiles sighs, setting his fork down and putting his hands together in front of him.

“So, hey, I’m Stiles and sometimes I have terrifying nightmares that make me wake up screaming,” He says in a rush, setting his chin on his knuckles.

“Does it happen a lot?” Lydia asks carefully.

Stiles shakes his head.

“Never in the city. Happens when I come home, usually. Just, being here makes me remember…”

He clears his throat and picks his fork up again, diving into his food.

“I have to go out and do a thing today,” He says. “Do you want to come with me or do you want to wait here? I can just swing back by when I’m done and pick you up for Scott’s dinner.”

“What kind of thing?” Lydia asks, taking a bite of her egg-soaked bread.

Stiles shrugs. 

“A personal thing,” He says simply, looking down at his food.

Lydia purses her lips as she thinks.

Finally, she nods.

\- - -

“What in the _hell_ is that?”

“This is Roscoe,” Stiles says, grinning widely as he taps on the hood of his Jeep.

“I’m not sitting in that,” Lydia says, crossing her arms over her chest and planting her feet.

“Shh, Lydia, he’ll hear you,” Stiles frowns, rubbing little circles on the driver’s side door. “Besides, it’s either this or walking and I bet you don’t want to walk.”

He looks pointedly down at her. Lydia narrows her eyes, but heads towards the passenger side of the vehicle and wrenches the door open. She has to hop up to get into the seat. Stiles thinks it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen even though he once literally held a baby duck in his hand at the county fair. He waits for Lydia to buckle up before he puts the key in the ignition and turns.

The engine groans and sputters. Stiles frowns and tries again.

This time, the Jeep roars to life, the headlights flashing on and illuminating the wall of the garage.

“Oh, thank God,” He whispers as Lydia glares at him from his right.

He flashes her a smile before he throws the Jeep into reverse and backs out onto the road.

“So, _that_ road is where Scott lives,” Stiles says, pointing at a sign that says Williamson Road. “And if we were to take a second left out here on the main road, that’s the way to our old high school.”

Lydia nods, watching the trees go past.

“Didn’t you say there was some kind of preserve?”

“Mmhm. Out to the west. It’s close to the school. Scott and I used to hang out there when shit got too rough.”

He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, making a face.

“The city is out to the east, over the river,” He says, pointing vaguely in a direction. “But the Sheriff’s station is right…there.”

He stabs a finger down a small side road. Lydia catches a glimpse of a squat brick building through the trees before it’s gone.

“And up _here_ is where all the big houses are,” Stiles continues, pointing towards a subdivision on the right. “That’s where Danny Mahealani lived. Or lives, I guess. It’s not like he’s _gone_.”

“Wait, you know Danny Mahealani?” Lydia asks, whipping her head around. Now that Stiles had pointed out the area, she recognized the sign at the entrance to the subdivision and the green house on the corner.

“ _You_ know Danny?” Stiles whips his head around to look at her, surprise on his face.

Lydia laughs.

“Danny was Jackson’s best friend, of course I know Danny,” Lydia laughs. “I went to a graduation party at his house with Malia. It was _terrible_.”

She wrinkles her nose at the memory. Stiles gapes at her.

“I almost went to that party!” He says. “But Scott had the flu so I hung out with him instead!”

“We’ll call those the ‘Lost Years,’” Lydia says with a smile.

“Wait!” Stiles shouts. “ _You_ know Danny!”

“Yes, we’ve established that.”

“And Danny knows _me_!”

“Again, established.”

Stiles comes to a halt at a stop sign and spins in his seat to look at Lydia.

“ ** _So Danny knew we were soulmates and didn’t say anything_** ,” He says. “Oh, I’m going to leave him one _doozy_ of a voicemail for Christmas.”

Lydia starts to laugh loudly, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth.

“Well, I’m glad _you_ can find humor in this,” Stiles grumbles, taking a left. Lydia laughs even louder.

“Maybe he was waiting for fate to push us together like you wanted,” She giggles. “Even though fate is a made-up concept.”

“Lydia, it is Christmas Eve. I will not have this fight with you again.”

Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Though that _does_ make sense,” Stiles says, nodding. “I found Isaac’s soulmate a year ago and I still haven’t told him.”

“Are you waiting for fate to put them together?” Lydia asks sarcastically.

“No, I’m waiting for him to stop being such a colossal douchebag,” Stiles says, smirking.

Lydia snorts.

“No chance he’ll run into her on the subway and start spouting off random shark facts at her?”

“Not unless he randomly finds himself in a subway in Paris.”

He puts his blinker on and makes a right. Lydia’s smile fades as she realizes they’ve just turned into the Beacon Hills Cemetery. As she watches him, his jaw clenches and his face pales. She reaches out tentatively and covers his hand with her own. He does not look at her. He makes a series of three short turns before stopping the Jeep and killing the ignition. He sits motionless for a moment before his eyes drift up to Lydia. He tilts his lips up into something between a smile and a grimace before he opens the door and slides to the ground. Lydia watches him take a few paces up the small hill in front of them before she follows.

She stays five feet behind him, watching as he walks a familiar path through the graves. He finally comes to a stop in front of a single gray headstone, the name **Claudia Stilinski** carved in deep, black letters on it. He exhales softly, reaching out to brush a few dead leaves off of the top of the stone before he kneels down and puts his knees in the soft dirt.

“I used to give her presents, you know,” Stiles says. “Just little stuff I would find that I thought she would like. Sticks, rocks, shells from the beach.”

He leans down and digs a small hole in the dirt in front of his mother’s headstone.

“There’re jars all over Dad’s room full of the things I brought her. Eight years worth of rocks and twigs.”

He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a small, smooth pebble. Lydia vividly remembers watching him pick it up weeks ago on the walk home from the show. Her heart jerks against her ribs.

“I bring her something every year,” He says, placing the stone carefully in the spot he had made for it and covering it back up. His voice is thick. Lydia closes the space between them, leaning down and circling her arms around his chest. She rests her chin on his shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. She can feel his stubble rubbing against the Mark on her cheek.

“I just…wouldn’t want her to think I forgot.”

Lydia shifts her head and presses a kiss against his jaw. He leans back into her touch, his hands coming up to rest on her arms.

They stay like that until Stiles wipes his face and stands, taking Lydia’s hand as they walk back to the Jeep.

\- - -

Scott answers the door with a wide smile and a Santa hat perched on his head.

“Merry Christmas!” He yells, pulling Lydia and Stiles both into a hug and kissing both of their cheeks.

“It’s Christmas _Eve_ , Scott,” Lydia laughs.

“Also, what the fuck have you been drinking?” Stiles adds, also grinning.

“Maybe I’ve just got the Christmas spirit in me,” Scott replies, waggling his eyebrows.

“Christmas _spirits_ , you say Father Scott-mas?” Stiles says, leaning forward.

“ _Ignore_ my son, he got into the wine.”

A dark-haired woman with kind brown eyes steps out from behind Scott, nudging him to the side and pulling Stiles into a hug.

“It’s so nice to see you again, Stiles,” She grins, pulling back and resting a hand on his arm. Lydia notices a swirling golden Mark twisting between the index and middle fingers of her left hand.

“I missed you, too, Melissa,” Stiles responds.

Lydia wonders where Melissa’s Match is. From what Stiles had told her, she lived alone in the house when Scott was away at school. He had never told her that Melissa was Golden.

“And you must be Lydia!” Melissa says, pulling Lydia into a hug before she can protest.

“Hi,” Lydia squeaks into Melissa’s dark hair.

“Well, come in!” Melissa says, stepping back and letting Stiles and Lydia enter her living room. Stiles strips off his thin jacket and bomber cap, tossing them on the back of a nearby chair.

“Need help in the kitchen?” He asks as Melissa starts to head towards the back of the house.

“You’re not getting the recipe for my ham, Stiles,” Melissa calls back. Stiles grumbles and moves to follow her.

“I’ll be right back,” He says to Lydia over his shoulder. “I’m about to go steal a ham.”

Lydia smiles at his retreating back.

“He like likes you, you know,” Scott says from the couch. Lydia rolls her eyes and sits down next to Scott, crossing her arms.

“We’re _adults_. No one ‘like likes’ anyone.”

“Well he like likes you. And you can trust me. I’ve got the Christmas spirit.”

Scott nods knowingly, throwing an arm over the back of the couch.

“Where is this wine?” Lydia sighs, looking around.

“Lydia,” Scott laughs, putting a hand on Lydia’s arm. “Stiles _really_ likes you. I would know. I’ve got—“

“A stomach full of Christmas spirit, I know,” Lydia smiles, putting a hand over Scott’s.

“I’m only telling you because I’m a little bit tipsy,” Scott says, holding his index finger and his thumb close together for emphasis. “But I’m just saying that if you like like him then you two should get together. Because Lydia—“

He leans in close.

“He _really_ like likes you.”

Lydia ignores the way her heart is thrumming quick and fast.

“He only thinks he likes me,” She mutters. “Just because we have matching Marks—“

“No, bullshit,” Scott says, shaking his head and sending the Santa hat sliding sideways. “He doesn’t believe in the Marks. He likes you because he likes you. Not because you’re his match.”

Lydia looks away from Scott and toward the kitchen, where she can hear Stiles laughing loudly. She feels a flush spreading across her cheeks. She clears her throat.

“Do you have any more secrets from me, Drunk Scott?” She asks, reaching up and fixing Scott’s hat. Scott grins widely and leans in close.

“I watched the Star Wars trilogy with Kira. Don’t tell Stiles.”

“He is going to _murder_ you.”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

Scott claps her on the knee.

“I’m going to go find some water to drown my Christmas spirit,” He says, nodding once before standing and disappearing down a nearby hallway. Lydia chuckles as he saunters down the hallway. Almost immediately after Scott disappears, Stiles stalks out of the kitchen and throws himself onto the spot next to Lydia. He pouts, flinging his arms up.

“Couldn’t get the ham?” Lydia asks, smiling over at him.

“She’s guarding it like a _hawk_ ,” He seethes.

“Do hawks normally guard meat?”

“Fine, she’s guarding it like an _mean_ woman who doesn’t want me to know how she makes her delicious freaking ham.”

He sneers childishly in the direction of the kitchen. Lydia smiles over at him, surveying the curve of his Adam’s apple. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him there. Wonders if he would gasp or hum or whisper at her to do it again. A blush creeps up to her cheeks. She quickly averts her eyes.

There’s a knock at the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Stiles yells towards the kitchen, hauling himself off of the couch. The Sheriff enters a moment later, a bottle of wine in his hands. He nods at Lydia in greeting as Melissa comes into the living room and walks up to him. He leans down and kisses her on the cheek, handing her the bottle of wine. Melissa beams up at him and pats him on the arm, turning to head back to the kitchen.

The Sheriff rolls up the sleeves of his button up shirt as he follows after her. Lydia is surprised to see a golden Mark on the inside of his elbow that matches Melissa’s. Stiles catches her noticing and grins, coming back to the couch.

“Scott tried to get them together for _years_ ,” He says, scooting closer to Lydia until he’s comfortably resting against her shoulder.

“But not you?” Lydia asks, shifting her legs so their knees lean against each other.

Stiles shakes his head.

“If they wanted to be together, they would be,” He says. “But they don’t, so they’re not. Mom used to say that the Marks only mean what you want them to. They want their Marks to mean that they’re just really good friends, so that’s what they are.”

“Did your mom have a Mark?” Lydia drops a hand onto Stiles’s arm, rubbing a small _LM_ there. Stiles nods.

“Hers turned red when she was a baby. It was a star. Right _here_.”

Stiles softly presses a fingertip to the exposed skin underneath Lydia’s collarbone. He pauses there, his eyes drifting up to her Mark.

“What do _you_ want the Marks to mean?” Lydia asks, her voice soft. Stiles trails his fingers up the arc of her neck, brushing back the hair over her shoulder. Lydia’s breath hitches as a pleasant shiver rolls up her spine. Stiles notices, his eyes glinting as he pulls back, letting his hand drag lightly down her arm. He takes a deep breath, searching her face as he thinks of an answer.

“Well, I—“

“Food’s ready!” Scott shouts, jumping into the room from the kitchen. His hat is gone, but his eyes still sparkle with the Christmas spirit. He leaves as quickly as he came, darting towards the dining area. Stiles laughs, standing and holding his hand out to Lydia.

“Are you ready to eat the best ham you’ll ever have in your life?”

Lydia feels her heart lurch as he smiles down at her. She shakes her head slightly, taking his hand.

“Sure. Lead the way.

\- - -

Stiles pulls the car into the garage at 11:30 PM, laughing hysterically as he tries to tell Lydia about his first lacrosse game.

“And then—and then Scott SOMEHOW manages to get the ball and he—listen, Lydia, listen, it’s the best part—he _runs the wrong way_!”

Lydia shrieks with laughter.

“He did _not_!”

“Hand to God, Lyds! I swear!”

The nickname pops out of him before he can think about it. Lydia smiles at him as they step out of the Jeep.

“You guys sound like you were _terrible_. What kind of coach did you guys have?”

“Coach was amazing! Scott was just…distracted.”

“By what?”

“By me yelling that he was going the wrong way, _obviously_.”

Lydia cracks up, falling against him as they stumble through the door. Stiles throws an arm around her shoulders to steady them, still cackling. They make it to the living room and collapse on the couch, comfortably resting against each other.

“Do you want to watch cheesy Christmas movies and drink hot chocolate?” Stiles asks, still grinning.

“If you mean _awesome_ Christmas movies, then yes,” Lydia nods.

“Cheesy can be awesome,” Stiles says, hopping over the back of the couch to head for the kitchen. Lydia picks up the remote and turns on the television, flipping through channels. By the time Stiles comes back holding two mugs loaded with marshmallows, Lydia has settled on a movie and kicked off her shoes.

“Give it a few minutes to cool down,” He says, resting the mugs on the coffee table in front of them before he sits.

“No, I’m going to drink scalding hot chocolate water,” Lydia replies, frowning at him. Stiles responds by snuggling close to her and smirking.

“Fine, burn your face, see if I care,” He laughs, knocking her shoulder.

“You’d care,” Lydia says, keeping her gaze on the blue Muppet on the screen.

“Fine, I’d care,” He says, shrugging. He reaches down and plays with the fabric of her skirt. Lydia looks down at his fingers running over the cotton, focusing on the veins trailing up his hand and the callouses on his palms. She moves up to his face, tracing the familiar planes of his cheeks and the slope of his nose. Her traitor heart speeds up as she makes a decision.

“You never answered the question,” Lydia says softly. Stiles picks his head up.

“What do I want the Marks to mean?” He asks.

Lydia nods.

“I don’t have an answer,” He shrugs, laughing. “I mean, I thought I didn’t believe in them. I thought that I wouldn’t let this little cog mean anything to me.”

He holds his palm up, flexing his fingers around his Mark.

“But then I met this girl on the subway one day when I woke up late and you’re not this fake person that I built up in my head. You’re right here next to me and you’re smart and you don’t take any of my shit and you’re so beautiful, Lydia, but most of all you’re _real_. So, I don’t have an answer anymore. Maybe the Marks _are_ tied with fate. Because, honestly, Lyds…I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be on Christmas than sitting here with you.”

He finishes, looking up at her with his eyes wide and vulnerable. Lydia might have forgotten how to breathe. She rapidly tries to think of all of the excuses to not fall for Stiles Stilinski, but nothing comes to mind.

Lydia decides not to think.

She surges forward, capturing Stiles’s lips with her own. One of her hands comes up to cradle his face, the other gripping his t-shirt. Stiles freezes against her for a moment before he moves, pressing into her. He’s holding his breath. Lydia’s heart is somewhere in the back of her throat, every nerve in her body focusing on the way Stiles tastes and smells and _feels_. She pulls back, opening her eyes to search his expression.

Stiles is looking at her with wide eyes, his expression completely exposed. He takes in a breath.

“… _Oh_ ,” He exhales shakily.

Lydia smiles shyly, looking down at his chest. Stiles picks up a hand and runs it gently through her hair, a grin spreading across his cheeks. He leans in slowly, kissing her again. He takes his time, humming against her when she traces her tongue along the curve of his upper lip. His hands grip her waist, clasping her tightly against him. When he pulls away, he’s smiling.

“What?” Lydia asks, breathless.

“Just…Merry Christmas, Lydia Martin.”

Lydia laughs.

“Merry Christmas, Mściwòj,” She whispers, carding her fingers through his hair.

He tries to say something in response but the words are swallowed when Lydia leans forward once more. Later, he won’t remember what he meant to say in response. All he’ll remember is the way Lydia Martin said his name before she kissed him and the weight of her hair against his Mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!
> 
> readymachine.tumblr.com


	8. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles thinks he could spend a lifetime kissing Lydia Martin and never, ever get tired of it.

**January (1).**

Stiles thinks he could spend a lifetime kissing Lydia Martin and never, ever get tired of it.

He just needs to _not ruin it_.

Right now, Stiles can’t stop his brain from firing. Lydia is sitting in his lap, her hands bunched in his t-shirt and her lips eagerly pressed against his own. He’s using most of his willpower to _not_ grind up and alleviate the growing discomfort in his jeans because that would be _rude_ , but Lydia’s hands roam down and the pads of her fingertips brush against the small strip of exposed skin on his stomach and Stiles can’t really help his sharp inhale or the buck of his hips. He panics for exactly .04 seconds before Lydia giggles against him, splaying her fingers across the bare skin under his shirt. Stiles moans lightly into her mouth before he can stop himself, wrapping his arm around her back and pulling her closer against him. His free hand drags up the length of her thigh, coming to rest _just_ before the curve of her ass. She wiggles slightly, pulling back to kiss a line down his chin and to the sensitive skin of his throat.

“ _Lydia_ ,” He breathes out, his voice low.

She hums against him in response, the vibration rumbling down to his chest.

And really, just fuck it.

He tightens his grip and flips her onto her back, the couch cushions beneath them creaking as they shift. Lydia lets out a surprised gasp, looking up at him with flushed cheeks and swollen lips and a warm smile that makes his stomach swoop up to his throat. Her golden Mark shines brightly against her skin and Stiles leans down to press a tender kiss against it before he turns his attentions back to her wanting mouth. He runs a hand over the smooth skin of her side, hiking her shirt up as she arches into him with a breathy sigh. He smiles against her, slipping the edge of his fingers under the lace of her bra—

The front door opens with a very loud _bang_.

Stiles looks up in time to see Malia’s surprised face before Lydia plants her hands on his chest and shoves him off of her, sitting up and spinning around to face the entranceway. Stiles topples onto the floor with a yelp, jolting to his feet and trying to cover the _very_ visible problem straining against his pants. Malia smiles wide at the two of them from the door.

“Hey guys,” She says brightly. “Nice boner, Stiles.”

Stiles turns a deep shade of red, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling.

“Always a pleasure, Malia,” He coughs.

“You’re not supposed to be home for an hour,” Lydia says, straightening her shirt.

“Harris let us out early,” Malia replies simply, dropping her bag by the door. She trots to the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator and digging around for something to eat.

Stiles whips his head down to look at Lydia. Her lips are pressed together in a line, the flush in her cheeks gone. She locks eyes with him and jerks her head towards the front door. He slumps his shoulders, his mouth popping open unhappily. She tilts her head again, her eyes narrowing. Stiles huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I guess I’ll be going,” He says loudly. Lydia stands, nodding, her hair tumbling down around her face from the messy bun she’d put up when he got there.

 _God_ , she’s beautiful.

He really needs to not ruin this.

Stiles grabs his coat and slips into it, pulling his bomber cap from his pocket and jamming it on his head. Lydia walks him to the door, holding it open for him as he trudges out into the hallway.

“Secret’s out,” He says, turning to look at her.

“It was never a _secret_ ,” She replies, her voice too low to be believable.

“Still want to come by on Thursday?” He asks. “I’ll make you something delicious.”

Lydia tries to hide her smile.

“I’ll let you know,” She says.

Stiles leans forward and kisses her Mark quickly before he steps back and starts down the hall. He only glances back at her once before he gets to the elevator, but all he sees is the glint of her hair as she steps back inside her apartment and closes the door.

\- - -

**January (2)**

“Are you and Stiles dating?”

Lydia looks up from her breakfast, her mouth hanging open mid-chew. It had been a week since Malia caught them on the couch together and Lydia was hoping she was just going to let it go without prying any further. She knew now how foolish that hope had been.

She swallows the last of her bagel.

“No, we’re not dating.”

“Does _he_ know that?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Lydia frowns.

“It seems like you’re dating,” Malia shrugs, looking down at her cereal.

“We’re not _dating_ ,” Lydia replies, waving a hand dismissively. “We’re just…”

She tries to articulate exactly what her and Stiles are, but she can’t quite find the words.

“ _Friends_ ,” She finishes lamely.

“Do you fuck all your friends?” Malia asks, raising a knowing eyebrow.

“We haven’t _fucked_ ,” Lydia says quickly.

Malia giggles.

“Why not?”

Lydia can still feel the pressure of Stiles’s grip on the outside of her thighs, still remember the way her name had fluttered out from between his lips. She already feels a blush crossing her cheeks.

“I have to go,” Lydia says abruptly, standing and spinning for the door. She can hear Malia laughing at her as she steps out into the hallway.

\- - -

**January (3)**

Stiles sinks his teeth into the skin to the right of his thumbnail and pulls. A small, battered layer of flesh pulls up slightly, allowing him to slip his incisors deeper in an effort to find better purchase. He frowns down at the article sprawled out on the table in front of him, his free hand turning a blue highlighter between his long fingers. Somehow, when he’d signed up for “A History of the Horror Genre in Film,” he wasn’t expecting there to be so much _reading_. He tugs again on the frayed skin, a small section tearing free with the motion. A small sliver of blood mingled with the spit in the crease of his nail bed. He wipes it on his jeans.

There’s a swift kick to his shin underneath the table.

“Stop chewing your nails,” Lydia says over her non-fat, no-whip, soy vanilla something-or-another, not looking up from the Chemistry textbook in her hands.

“I’m not chewing my nails, I’m chewing the skin _around_ my nails,” Stiles retorts, purposefully pressing his fingers down against the worn surface of the Has Beans seat.

“Stop wolfbiting, then,” Lydia says simply. She turns a page.

“Stop _what_?”

“Dermatophagia. The act of biting your skin. Also called wolfbiting.”

Stiles reaches his hand across the small space between them, his palm up. The golden Mark glints in the yellow light overhead.

“So give me something else to do with my hand,” He says, smirking. Lydia glances up, considering. Stiles holds his pose, fighting to keep a blush from creeping up his neck. He feels childish, teasing a girl in an attempt to hold her hand. But he really, _really_ wants to hold her hand. Finally, Lydia slides her hand against his, her fingertips lightly tracing the curve of his Mark. Her fingers are warm, electric against his skin, and he moves to cup them when she pulls her hand back and smacks him on the wrist with a small _crack_.

“Learn to exercise self-control,” She says simply, turning back to her book, her hands gripping the edge of the hardcover just a little too tightly. Stiles pulls his hand back, flexing it under the table where she can’t see. Her touch lingers on him, hot little paths on the lines of his palm.

He really hopes he doesn’t ruin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


	9. February (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do you know when you’re in love?”

**February (1).**

“Mother _fucker_ , fuck me in the goddamn ASS!”

Stiles slams his controller down into his lap with a screeching sound, kicking his legs childishly as his screen flashes red.

“It’s just a game, Stiles,” Lydia laughs beside him, her Cuba Libre clinking neatly in the glass in her hand as she knocks his shoulder.

“You’re _face_ is just a game,” Stiles shoots back, already starting up another campaign. As the counter ticks down on the screen, Stiles grabs his beer from the spot between his feet and chugs most of it down. He pulls it back sloppily, spilling beer down his front and shoving the almost-empty beer absently between the couch cushions. Lydia snorts as she wrangles the bottle from its cushion vice and sets it on the crowded coffee table.

“You didn’t have to— _fucking move, assnozzle shitfucker_ —it was perfectly fine—FUCK YOU, DIEDIEDIE— _right_ where it was, Lyds!”

“You would have spilled it!” Lydia retorts, her voice just a tad too loud. She finishes her drink with one courageous swallow.

“I would _never_ ,” He responds, wiping the spilled beer off of his chin with his shoulder. Lydia looks him over: three-day scruff on his jaw, a backwards baseball cap snug on his head, beer on his shirt, and a drunken flush in his cheeks.

She thinks she shouldn’t feel so absolutely _smitten_ , but she’ll let herself.

Just this once.

Only because she’s a _little_ bit drunk.

Lydia rotates in her spot, throwing her legs up and splaying them across his thighs. He sets his forearms down on her shins, the muscles in his arms moving erratically against her green tights as he violently smashes buttons. He squints at the screen, his eyes darting frantically around as he looks for a target there, no _there_ , no _THERE_ —

“FUCK YOU, SCOTTY!” He angrily yells at the screen as it flashes red again.

“Scott’s not even here,” Lydia says, leaning her head back against the armrest. “He left for Kira’s an hour ago.”

“He’s gone?” Stiles asks, swiveling his neck around to look at her. The counter ticks down on the television.

“ _Yes_ , didn’t you notice?”

“We’re alone?”

“Again, _yes_.”

Stiles drops the controller unceremoniously onto the hardwood, snaking his body over Lydia’s and pressing a sloppy kiss against her lips. Lydia laughs into his mouth as he presses her into the couch, sliding her hands over his chest and circling them around his shoulders. He hums against her happily, twisting a hand down to squeeze her thigh. She drags her fingers lazily through the short hair peeking out from underneath his baseball cap. Her knuckles brush against the rough fabric of the visor. As Stiles dips his head to kiss a wet line down her jaw, he starts laughing. Lydia squirms as his sorry excuse for a beard tickles her neck.

“What?” She breathes. Stiles just shakes his head lightly, a smile stretched wide across his face as he kisses her chin. He’s still chuckling as he runs his hand _just_ under the fabric of her skirt, his hands warm through her tights.

“ _What_?” Lydia asks again when he snorts another laugh against her neck.

“It’s nothing, I just thought of something,” He says, pulling back enough for her to look at his face. His eyes are sparkling from his laughter and the liquor, glowing brightly like warm amber stars. If she focuses hard enough, Lydia thinks she can see the cog on her cheek reflected in his iris: a tiny glint of gold in an ocean of black, landlocked in light. She feels a warm jolt in her chest that spreads to her fingers. She fights back the sudden urge to hold his cheek in her palm.

“What did you think of?” She asks. Her mouth is unusually dry. She thinks she should stop drinking rum and move on to water.

Stiles searches her features, a smile still stretched across his ruddy cheeks. He lowers his face, his lips gently connecting with the soft expanse of white skin. Lydia’s eyes flutter shut.

And then Stiles sucks in a large breath and blows a massive, wet raspberry against her neck.

Lydia squeals, bucking sideways into his arm. Stiles leans forward to try again, cackling wildly. Lydia manages to get a knee up and pushes, sending Stiles’s legs sliding off of the couch. There’s a clatter as he kicks his foot out and tips over his beer bottle with his fall.

“No-o-o-o!” He says, looking sadly towards the floor at what was surely a growing spill. “I _told you_ it was perfectly fine where it was, Lydia!”

“It would have been perfectly fine in the _couch cushions_ , Stiles?” Lydia glares, trying to wipe the spit off of her neck with the sleeve of Stiles’s shirt. “The couch cushions we are currently laying across?”

“Yeah,” He says wistfully, turning back to Lydia with a frown. Lydia rolls her eyes and whacks his chest.

“Get something to clean it with!” She says. Stiles sighs deeply, but stands. He slips in the spill as he moves towards his room, arms flailing as he regains his balance at the last moment. Lydia curls her lips under her teeth to keep from laughing. He disappears into his room and comes back with a dirty beige towel, dropping it onto the mess and moving it around with his foot.

“Your floor is going to be sticky now,” Lydia muses, tucking her legs under her as she watches him poorly clean up the mess.

“Hey!” Stiles pops his head up. “That reminds me! We’ve got another show at Deucalion’s! Do you wanna come?”

“When is it?”

Stiles takes a moment to pick the damp towel up with a grimace.

“The 14th,” He replies, turning and tossing the towel down the hallway in the general direction of the bathroom. He misjudges wildly and it slaps wetly into the wall. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and plops down on the couch.

“You’re doing a Valentine’s Day show?” Lydia asks. Stiles nods and yawns, tipping his head sideways and resting it against Lydia’s shoulder. Lydia puts her arm around his shoulder. She thinks maybe it’s a bad idea, but he’s so warm— _why is he always so warm?_ —and his weight against her is comforting.

“Do I get to be on a list?” Lydia asks into his cap. He smells like cedar and sunshine and something like home.

“Of course you get to be on a list,” Stiles replies. “But I will _not_ be buying your drinks, Miss I’m-Going-To-Buy-All-Of-My-Friends-Drinks-When-Stiles-Specifically-Told-Me-Not-To!”

Lydia laughs, bringing up a hand to tug his earlobe.

“Maybe I was just really thirsty,” She says.

“Maybe you’re a _liar_ ,” Stiles huffs, nuzzling into her side.

“Sure, I’ll come,” Lydia smiles. He pats her arm sleepily.

“Put something on the noise box,” Stiles says, gesturing towards the television.

Lydia rolls her eyes, but leans down and picks the controller up off of the floor. Stiles whines at the loss of his pillow. She frowns when she realizes it’s sticky from spilled beer. She wipes it off on Stiles’s jeans before quitting the game and opening Netflix.

“Can we watch the Notebook?” Lydia asks as Stiles leans back against her.

Stiles turns his head and kisses her shoulder.

“Anything you want, Lyds.”

\- - -

**February (2).**

“Can I ask you a question?”

Kira says the words too fast, the vowels skipping together as they leave her mouth. Lydia looks up from the rack of dresses. Her fingers flow over the silky material while she watches Kira nervously twist her hands together.

“Sure,” Lydia says, pulling a dress down and adding it to the six already over her arm.

“How do you know when you’re in love?”

Lydia fumbles the dresses. A barrage of images flits through her mind: Allison with a toothbrush hanging between her smiling lips; Allison’s hands looping through hers as she presses a quick kiss against Lydia’s cheek; Allison sleepily whispering “I love you” against her pillow, the words soft and slurred; Stiles looking down at her with shining eyes—

“I’m not in love with Stiles,” Lydia scoffs, returning the dress to the rack.

“Oh! I know!” Kira’s eyes look like they’re about to pop, her hands waving in front of her. “I didn’t mean—it’s just—“

“Are you asking because you’re in love with Scott?” Lydia asks with a smile. Kira blushes wildly, ducking her head and playing with the hem of a hideous magenta dress in front of her.

“Maybe I’m getting there,” She says quietly. “But how would I know? Malia was my only big relationship and—well, you were there, you saw how that went…I just remember you and—you know.”

“Yeah,” Lydia nods, averting her eyes.

“I could see how much you loved Allison—everyone could,” Kira says. “I just…I want to know so I can be sure, when it happens—if it happens.”

Lydia rounds the rack in a few steps and links her free arm with Kira’s.

“It will happen,” She says firmly. “You’re a badass guitar player and Scott couldn’t be more into you. I can’t tell you how falling in love will feel, but I can tell you that you’ll know.”

“That doesn’t help me much,” Kira says with a nervous laugh, but she smiles all the same.

“It’s different for everybody,” Lydia shrugs. She starts walking towards the changing rooms, pulling Kira along with her. “One day I looked at Allison and I just… _knew_.”

“So I’m supposed to just _know_ what I’ve never _known_?”

“Exactly!”

Lydia hands all of the dresses to Kira and nudges her towards an empty changing booth.

“Try these on,” She says as Kira’s mouth drops open. “Come out to show me when you’re done putting one on. And no arguing!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


	10. February (2).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His smile is a supernova, a bolt of lightning, a wave that will lift her off her feet with a well-timed jump.
> 
> All she has to do is jump.

**February (3).**

Stiles beats a nervous rhythm on the dashboard with his drum sticks, trying to keep his hands from sitting idle in his lap. He hates the drive from the storage space to Deucalion’s, when he’s stuck in the beat up brown van with every terrible thing that could go wrong spinning through his head. He’s normally fine once his feet touch down on the faded black tile of the venue, but the _drive_. The drive, where his idiot brain won’t shut up on how he could suddenly forget every song he’d ever learned, or how the guitars could come unplugged mid-song and leave him banging along into silence, or how the amps—

“The amps aren’t going to catch on fire,” Scott says from the drivers seat, reaching his right hand out blindly to thump Stiles on the shoulder with his knuckles.

“What if someone—“

“No one’s going to fall off of the stage and break their wrists either.”

“What about—“

“And no one is going to break their instruments in a terrible accident.”

Stiles huffs, tucking his arms across his chest. His fingers still twitch over the sticks.

“Is Lydia coming?” Scott asks, taking a corner just a little too sharply. Stiles winces as he hears his drum set shift in the back, the hi-hat clattering noisily in displeasure.

“Yeah,” Stiles says shortly, his stomach giving a lurch that had maybe nothing to do with the pre-show jitters or maybe everything.

“What’s up with you two?”

Stiles makes a wide gesture with one of his hands.

“So you have no idea?”

Stiles makes another wide gesture with his hand, thinking that he should probably be deeply disturbed that Scott seems to have learned how to read his mind.

Scott shakes his head lightly as he comes to a stop at a red light, the slant of a smile playing across his lips.

“The _real_ question is what’s up with you and Kira?”

Stiles is pretty sure the red wash against Scott’s face mirrors the blush that’s built up on his cheeks. Scott starts a little too suddenly when the light turns green. Stiles lets out a whine when he hears something topple in the back.

“Sorry!” Scott says quickly.

“Don’t wreck my drum set because you’re in like like with our guitarist, Scott!”

Scott laughs, high and light. He turns onto the last street before Deucalion’s.

“It’s a bad idea to date band members,” Scott says, slowly and deliberately.

“Well, fuck that idea,” Stiles replies. His foot is bouncing up and down now in anticipation of finally reaching their destination. “If you like like her, tell her.”

“You mean like how you told Lydia you like liked her?”

“I didn’t _have_ to tell her, I had a drunken Father Scott-mas on my side.”

Scott pulls around to the rear of the venue and backs the cumbersome van close enough to the back door to make the haul short.

“Too bad I don’t have a drunken Father Scott-mas,” Scott says as Stiles opens the car door and hops down onto the worn asphalt.

“You’ve got a Stiles,” Stiles replies. “Pretty soon you’ll have a Drunk Stiles and, really, who _knows_ what Drunk Stiles will say to Kira.”

Scott opens his mouth to reply, a horrified look on his face, but Stiles has already closed the door.

\- - -

Lydia is running pretty late, which infuriates her because she is _never_ late. She blames Professor Blake for assigning a 20 page paper that could have been summarized in 12 and the subway for being late the _one time_ she needed it not to be and she really blames Malia because if Malia had been home she would have woken up from her impromptu nap much earlier and she would probably have made it on time. But as it stands, she is _so, so late_ so she runs out of the subway car as soon as the doors open wide enough to allow her to squeeze through and sprints towards the stairs.

She spares a look down at her phone to check the time as she rushes into the chill air of the night. She’s so, so, so, so late.

Lydia runs as fast as she can in her three-inch heels, her bag slapping comically against her ass as she goes. She thinks, briefly, that she probably looks ridiculous. She also thinks, briefly, that she promised Stiles Stilinski that she would be at his stupid Valentine’s Day show and she doesn’t want to know what his face looks like when he’s _disappointed_. So she grits her teeth and rounds the corner to Deucalion’s, her loose hair streaming behind her.

She bursts in through the door as the beginning notes to Triskelion’s opening song ring through the small space. Lydia groans as she holds her arm out for Boyd to put a wristband around. She registers the cheesy red hearts stuck over most of the exposed space on the walls and wrinkles her nose.

“You’re late,” He yells over the noise with a grin, wrapping the pink band around her wrist. Lydia shoots him an exasperated look before she darts into the crowd, weaving her way up towards the front. She has to fight through a tightly packed group of teenagers who hiss in her ear before she sees Malia’s dark hair bobbing in front of the stage. With a final push, she makes it to the front, her shoulder knocking violently into Malia’s. On the stage in front of her, Scott hunches over his guitar, his lips kissing the mic as he yells crackling words into the crowd. Kira stands next to him wearing the dress Lydia picked out for her layered with neon pattered tights, her smile bright enough to light a room full of bulbs. Isaac is already on his knees on Scott’s opposite side, shaggy curls bouncing against his forehead as he slaps his bass.

And Stiles.

Stiles sits behind the drum set, his face distractedly searching the crowd. His rhythm is off, his brow creased with worry and his lower lip stuck between his teeth. But then Lydia bursts to the front of the stage, her face red from running and her hair a tousled mess around her shoulders. She holds a hand up awkwardly to get his attention, but he’s already found her. His expression immediately opens up, his smile painfully wide on his face. Lydia smiles back without meaning to, her lips curling up of their own accord. Stiles immediately picks up his pace on the drums and the rest of the band follows. They crash into the chorus of the song with a loud shriek on the guitars and Scott’s voice ringing over the sound. Malia presses a shot of clear liquor into Lydia’s hand with a sly grin.

“Cutting it close,” She laughs into Lydia’s ear. Lydia rolls her eyes and downs the shot. It burns like gin.

At the back of the stage, Stiles brings both drumsticks down onto the cymbals with a massive _crash_. One of the sticks fractures when it hits the metal, a fragment flying off and skidding across the stage. It hits a cord a flips, finally coming to rest in front of Lydia’s empty shot cup. Before she can think about it too hard, she picks it up and shoves it in her purse. If Malia notices, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she links her arm around Lydia’s waist and together they dance to the beat of the music.

\- - -

Stiles bursts out of the back door of Deucalion’s with a loud whoop, fists up in the air. Scott and Kira spill out behind him, each with the final load of gear in their arms.

“That was awesome!” Stiles yells into the night. He spins around to look at Scott. “Wasn’t that awesome? That was _awesome_.”

“Was it awesome, Stiles?” Lydia asks from the doorway, stepping through the doorway with Malia and Isaac trailing behind her. She’s got a smile wide across her cheeks, her hair a fiery mane framing her face. Stiles feels like the wind is knocked out of him just looking at her.

“ _I_ think it was awesome,” Malia laughs, stumbling into Isaac. He throws his arm around her shoulder and pulls her closer. Stiles blinks once, then points enthusiastically towards her.

“ _She_ thought it was awesome!” He whines at Lydia.

“I didn’t say I didn’t think it was awesome,” Lydia laughs. Stiles squints at her disbelievingly.

Overhead, thunder rumbles, low and heavy.

Scott glances up as he places Kira’s guitar gingerly in the back of their van.

“Are we still going to Crescent?” He asks the group. Isaac pulls a clove cigarette out of his jacket pocket and puts it between his teeth, shrugging at Scott in answer. Malia scowls at him as he goes to light it, snatching it out of his mouth and throwing it to the side. He tries to look offended, but he smiles instead.

“I could eat,” She says.

“I’ll go, too,” Isaac replies, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“I can’t,” Lydia says, looking up at the cloudy sky. She’s thinking of her paper and how she still needs to edit it and the fourteen pages of notes she needs to review for her upcoming test and the dirty dishes in the sink.

“I’ll walk you back,” Stiles says immediately, moving a fraction of a step towards her.

And just like that, Lydia isn’t thinking of her classwork. She’s thinking of how tightly his jacket is hugging his shoulders and the loose way he curls his lower lip into his mouth while he waits for her to give him permission to walk her home. She swallows a smile and nods.

She hugs Malia and Kira briefly before she starts towards the street, Stiles falling into step beside her. He puts a hand gently between her shoulder blades as they walk, the contact causing a pleasant shiver to roll up her spine and out to her fingertips.

“Don’t forget practice tomorrow!” Scott calls after him. “We need to keep working on Strawberry-Blonde Is The—“

He cuts himself off with a hand over his mouth. Stiles skids to a stop and slowly turns around, color rising in his face.

“Working on our new song!” Scott amends lamely. Lydia looks up at Stiles, feeling strangely flattered and only a little bit annoyed.

“Maybe we should call it My Two Guitarists Should Probably Just Admit They Want To Make Out instead?” Stiles shoots back.

There’s a split-second where Scott looks comically surprised, his mouth falling open before he snaps his gaze to Kira. Her cheeks are beet red as she stares up at Scott, a similarly shocked expression on her face. Beside them, Malia begins to laugh.

Stiles takes Lydia by the wrist and power walks towards the street. She has to jog slightly to keep up.

“Just keep walking before he decides to come after me,” He says quickly, already sounding out of breath. Lydia can’t help but laugh as they round the corner onto the main sidewalk.

Lydia’s focused too closely on the warmth of Stiles’s palm against her skin to notice he’s taken her the opposite way from the subway entrance until they’ve already started down the block. She tugs on his hand to make him stop.

“We’re taking the subway,” She says, firmly.

“But the park is _right there_ , we’ll just cut through.”

Another roll of thunder booms ominously close by.

Lydia raises her eyebrows pointedly. Stiles just grins, letting his hand drift down to her own and threading his fingers through hers. A gust of wind flows down the street, picking up the edge of Lydia’s dress. Stiles’s eyes rake down her figure before popping back up to her face. She notices.

Lydia rolls her eyes, but she lets him pull her towards the park.

“C’mon,” He says confidently. “We’ll definitely beat the rain.”

* * *

They don’t beat the rain.

Stiles is animatedly explaining the lifecycle of a jellyfish as they near the exit of the park when a raindrop lands on his cheek. Another one hits his shoulder, then one brushes the tip of Lydia’s nose. They look up, startled, and the sky opens above them. Lydia shrieks as the sheet of cold water crashes down around her, immediately soaking through her clothes. Lydia turns her head towards Stiles to yell at him about not taking the subway, but it catches in her throat as he spins to look at her. His smile is a supernova, a bolt of lightning, a wave that will lift her off her feet with a well-timed jump.

All she has to do is jump.

“Oops,” Stiles laughs, ducking his head against the rain.

Lydia’s limbs feel light. She’s warm despite the wet chill of her clothes. Stiles tightens his grip on Lydia’s hand and together they start to run.

Lydia should hate this. She should hate the cold and the damp and the running, especially. But Stiles is laughing beside her and his hand is steady in hers and her lungs are so full against her ribs and soon she’s laughing, too.

They reach her building breathless and drenched, huddled under the short awning just over the entranceway. Stiles has both of Lydia’s hands held in his own, his whole body shaking from laughter. There are raindrops dripping down the curve of his cheekbone. Lydia has the wild idea to taste them.

She should tell him to leave.

She should say goodbye and walk inside and take a warm bath and probably edit her stupid paper. But her heart is alive inside of her chest tonight and maybe she can be reckless. Maybe just this once.

“What’s my song called, Stiles?” She asks. She looks up at him, just shy of shyly with a smile dancing at the corner of her lips. He blushes, looking at his feet, kicking at a puddle.

“You’ll think it’s stupid,” He mumbles. His teeth are chattering, from cold or nerves she can’t tell. “It’s just a working title.”

“What’s my song called, Stiles?” She asks again. She’s softer this time, her thumbs brushing lightly over his knuckles.

Stiles lets out a shivering breath, looking up at her through the drooping fringe of his hair.

“Strawberry-Blonde Is The Color Of The Cog In My Machine,” He exhales, the words all squeezed together in their haste to leave him.

A short beat of time passes between them.

And then Lydia starts to laugh. She tries to hold them in at first, small chuckles eking their way out from between pursed lips. But soon her will fails her and she’s doubling over in laugher, clutching Stiles’s hands as he stands in front of her with red cheeks.

“I’m literally going to die of shame,” He groans as she starts winding down. “This is actually too embarrassing to survive.”

“No!” Lydia untwists her fingers from Stiles’s and frames his face with her hands. His hands snake up to rest on her wrists. “ _No_ , I love it. It’s amazing. It’s the best title I’ve ever heard.”

“They can’t all be Snip Snip Mother Fuckers,” He sighs, leaning into her palms.

And she should _really_ go upstairs and leave this boy here on the steps, but he turns his head ever-so-slightly and presses a small kiss to the heel of her hand and she can’t stop herself.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

Her hands slide down his cheeks, his shoulders, the length of his arm before they come to stop at her sides. She still feels the warmth of his cheek against her palms, burned there like a brand. His gaze is steady on her face. He is absolutely still for a breath, for two.

Finally, he nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


	11. February (2) 2.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should probably get out of those wet clothes,” She says.

**February (2) 2.**

Stiles has never seen the inside of Lydia’s bedroom. The door had been shut during all of his previous visits to her apartment, a pretty pastel ‘L’ hanging from a tack in the wood the only indication that it was hers at all. But now he stands just inside the doorway as she walks towards the closet in this space that is so purely _hers_ and the intimacy of the moment makes his heart ache pleasantly inside of his chest. He wants to say something—make a joke about the unmade bed and the pristine desk or tell her how fucking beautiful she is, how beautiful she _always_ is—but he doesn’t want to break whatever magic that has led him here so he stays quiet. Lydia turns slowly to face him, the Mark on her cheek catching the dim light coming in through the windows. She’s illuminated strangely, fuzzy and sharp all at once. A raindrop curves down the skin under her earlobe, slipping slowly to the dip in her shoulder. Stiles aches to touch her.

“We should probably get out of those wet clothes,” She says.

Stiles feels his cock twitch.

Oh, _fuck_.

Lydia wraps her fingers around the bottom of her dress and pulls it over her head in one motion, letting the damp fabric fall heavily to the floor. Stiles immediately feels all of the blood leave his head to rush elsewhere as his eyes sweep over Lydia Martin’s pale thighs meeting under her pink shimmery underwear and Lydia Martin’s tight stomach with beads of water running down towards her hipbones and _Lydia Martin’s_ wet tits pressed against the thin cups of her bra.

Lydia watches him from the strange shadows, watches his eyes widen and his mouth pop open as he drinks her in. She wonders if she has left herself too vulnerable. She wonders if she should be afraid. But then he lets out a shaky breath and takes a half-step forward before faltering, looking up at her with a question in his eyes and she halves the distance between them, coming to a stop just out of his reach. She feels brave tonight and just a little bit reckless and she wants to know what Stiles sounds like when he’s coming undone.

“Take your shirt off, Stiles,” She says, softly. Her voice sounds too big in this small space she’s made between them.

He hesitates for just a moment before he shrugs out of his jacket and sheds his shirt soon after. She pauses, admiring the curve of his ribs, the dark line of hair disappearing from his navel into the low-slung waistband of his jeans, the constellation of freckles across his chest—the tattoo of a small red star he has just below his collarbone. Her heart stirs, remembering Stiles sitting with her on Scott McCall’s couch and the pad of his fingertip pressing against her skin.

Lydia steps forward. Her thumbs slip through the belt loops of his jeans as she presses a delicate kiss against the star (he tastes like sweat, like cedar wood, like rainwater, like _Stiles_ ) and he sways gently forward, his breath whooshing out of him. She smiles against his skin and stands on her toes to press another kiss against the pulse point of his throat. She has just enough time to register the feeling of his pounding heartbeat racing against her lips before something ignites in him and he _moves_.

Stiles crashes down on her, his arms snaking around her back to pull her flush against him. He threads his fingers through her damp hair, tipping her head back enough for him to swoop down and press a scorching, wet kiss against her mouth. Lydia gasps at the warmth of his chest against hers, circling her hands around his waist and scraping her nails bluntly down his lower back. Stiles moans obscenely into her mouth, dragging his hands down to squeeze her ass. He snaps them back up a moment later, one hand curling around the back of her neck and the other testing the weight of her breast against his palm. He kisses her so hard their teeth clink together and he is positively burning underneath her palms and Lydia feels the sharp slice of _want_ cut down her gut to pool in her stomach.

“You need to be doing something more _useful_ with your hands,” She breathes as he pulls back for air. Stiles grins wide and leans down to lick a sloppy line across the seam of her lips. When he moves back, Lydia’s bra is unhooked, the straps suddenly loose around the curve of her shoulders. She hadn’t felt him do it. She would be more impressed if he didn’t have that _shit-eating smile_ plastered across his cheeks.

“What do you want me to be doing with my hands, Lydia, hmm?” He asks. His voice is deep and eager, rolling the three syllables of her name across his tongue like a promise or a swear. It vibrates through Lydia’s core, shooting straight down to her cunt. She tilts upwards to press a sweet kiss against his lips, pulling back lazily and sliding her bra the rest of the way off. She shoves it somewhere into the space between them. She makes sure to smooth the back of her hand slowly down the camber of his stomach as she goes, feeling his muscles tense against her touch as he inhales. She swears he’s holding his breath. Stiles breaks eye contact to reverently stare down at the expanse of uncovered skin, one of his hands gliding around the curve of her ribcage to rest just under the swell of her breast, his glistening tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. He looks hungry, overwhelmed, like he can’t decide on what to do first. Lydia tilts Stiles’s chin back up with her fingers, bringing his gaze back up to her face. She leans forward ever-so-slightly, one of her hands floating down to brace itself against his chest.

“I want you to fuck me, Stiles,” She says simply.

And that’s all he needs to hear.

Stiles spins them around, walking Lydia backwards until the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed and she sits. Stiles follows her down, leaning over her with eyes that glint almost black in the dark of the night. He leans forward as if to kiss her, but pulls back at the last moment, hovering just above her. Lydia picks her head up to follow him before she realizes what she’s doing. She thinks she shouldn’t want this so badly. She thinks maybe this is a bad idea.

But then one of his hands skirts her inner thigh, his thumb ghosting _just_ over her clit, and she bucks forward against his knuckles. Stiles laughs breathily over her, his eyes hooded and his features positively _wicked_. He pauses to stare down at _Lydia Martin_ , beautiful and mostly naked and wanting _him_. His heart swoops up to his throat. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and then drops to his knees.

He drapes her legs over his shoulders and presses a broad lick against the thin fabric separating his tongue from her pussy. Lydia has to pull her bottom lip into her mouth to stifle the sound trying to climb out of her.

Stiles notices.

Slowly, _oh_ - _so slowly_ , he runs his thumb directly over where she’s pulsing, desperate to feel some release, and then he’s slipping his fingers under the satin and—

_Oh_.

Stiles tongues her clit through her panties as he leisurely fucks her with one finger, staring up at her with gleaming eyes from his place between her thighs. Lydia squirms against the contact, wanting more than he’s giving her, but he lifts a splayed hand and plants it on her stomach to keep her still. She looks down at him, scandalized, and the fucker _winks_ at her.

She’s going to make him pay for that.

At some point.

“ _Stiles_ ,” She whines, appalling herself with the sound rising out of her. “Just, _fuck_ —“

He’s pushed aside the soaked fabric of her panties and lowered his tongue to dip inside of her and he moans a series of jumbled words against her folds. It’s _almost_ enough to tip Lydia over the edge, but Stiles is apparently intent on being the _world’s biggest tease_ and he pulls back slightly to smile up at her with a slick chin.

And _really_ , that’s the last straw.

Lydia picks herself up enough to hook a hand around the back of his neck and tugs. He goes willingly, planting kisses erratically across her stomach as he lets her pull him up. He pauses to drag his lower teeth over her raised nipple, chuckling when he hears the hitch in her breathing. He presses soft kisses at the base of her throat, just under her chin, against her Mark. He pulls back enough for Lydia to see the dusky lines of his features, his eyes swallowed by shadows. She watches his face contort as she slips her hands down the curves of his abdomen to unfasten the button of his jeans. When her fingers curl around his dick, his eyes flutter closed and his mouth falls open into a lopsided ‘o.’

“ _Fu-u-u-u-c_ —“ He starts, the end of his curse blending into a moan that he buries in a kiss. Lydia pumps her hand loosely up and down in the cramped space between them, shifting her other to push the wet denim down the angles of his hips. He shimmies out of them the best he can, legs kicking awkwardly as he peels the material away from his skin. They hit the floor with a wet _slap_. Lydia smiles at the sound.

Stiles thinks he could spend a lifetime kissing Lydia Martin and never, ever get tired of it.

Lydia Martin, however, has bigger plans.

She tightens her thighs around his hips and rolls them over. Her hands plant on Stiles’s chest as she rocks slowly forward, rutting against him in a way that has him panting out a word she can’t quite make out. She glides forward again, putting pressure against the base of his dick as she takes the head in her hand, spreading the slick with the palm of her hand. Stiles groans, his hips arching up against her as his fingers try to find purchase on her thighs. He grunts out vowels between gritted teeth, the consonants getting lost somewhere in his throat. He tries again, but Lydia drags his dick against the soaked fabric separating them and the word gets lost in his moan.

“ _Enunciate_ ,” Lydia says, her hand moving slowly and purposefully between them.

“ _Fu_ — _condoms_!” He finally manages with a comical gasp. “ _Condoms_ , where are— _shit_!”

Lydia giggles as he squirms underneath her, his hands clenching against her skin as he tries to reel in any kind of control over himself he can muster.

“Birth control,” She says simply, smiling down at him.

He freezes, his eyes comically wide, then he pulls her down against him. He crashes their lips together, his hands slipping under the hem of her underwear to slide it down over her ass. Lydia straightens her legs, letting him push them halfway down her thighs before she kicks out of them. He spreads his fingers over her thighs, pulling her forward to slide her along the hard line of his dick. Lydia gasps against his mouth and places her hands on either side of his head. Her hair falls around their faces like a veil, blocking out the dim light coming in from the windows. There’s only Lydia and Stiles, his hitched breath against her cheek, her heartbeat strong against his chest, their noses gently nudging in the dark. Lydia feels Stiles tilt his head up to hers, feels him trace his tongue against her lower lip.

“You ready?” He whispers.

Lydia nods, pressing a soft kiss against the tip of his nose. She pulls her hips forward, reaches between them to line him up with her entrance, and sinks down.

Stiles wants to remember this for the rest of his life. He wants to remember Lydia Martin engulfing him, her back arching under his fingertips. He wants to remember her eyes fluttering closed, her sharp inhale, the way her head tilted back as she swayed further onto him.

But then she starts to move and all he can think of is _her_ , is _her_ , is _her_.

Lydia sits up as she rides Stiles, throwing her hair back over her shoulder. The lights from the streetlights outside illuminate the red flush across Stiles’s cheeks. His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, his eyes straining to focus on Lydia. She grinds down harder and laughs lightly as his eyes roll back. His gaze snaps back to attention as he hears her and he sits up, wrapping an arm around the small of her back to keep her moving against him. He drops his face to the notch of her shoulder, pressing rough kisses against her skin as his free hand moves between them to circle her clit.

Lydia shudders once, twice, then she falls apart around him with a wail that Stiles stifles by pressing his lips to hers. He slows as she comes down, gripping her hard and turning so that she ends up on her back with her legs hitched up around his waist.

And Lydia wants to remember this, she wants to hold this image close for the rest of her life. She wants to remember how softly he trailed his thumb over the edge of her jaw. She wants to remember the tender look on his face as he stares down at her in the dark. She wants to remember the way he sighed as she ran her hands down his chest and whispered “ _Mściwòj_.”

But then he starts to move and all she can think of is _him_ , is _him_ , is _him_.

\- - -

Stiles mumbles in his sleep.

It’s something that Lydia probably shouldn’t find as endearing as she does, but he’s currently sprawled naked across her bed and it turns out that a naked Stiles Stilinski bathed in morning sunlight is the best Stiles Stilinski, even when his lips move restlessly and his brow furrows and smooths, furrows and smooths. Lydia wonders idly if she could pass a finger between his eyebrows and press the wrinkles out to quell the noise in his head, but she doesn’t want to wake him. Not yet.

She thinks it would be _easy_ to fall into a relationship with Stiles. It would be easy to roll him over and kiss him and call him her boyfriend and that would be that, but.

_But_.

But this is _enough_ for her, for now. It’s enough to wake up next to a naked Stiles Stilinski bathed in morning sunlight with scratch marks on his chest and his hair sticking up ridiculously on the side. Enough to wake up with his hand on her hip, the Mark in his palm warm against her skin. Enough to wake up next to a Stiles who mummers something that sounds like her name.

She just hopes it’s enough for him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


	12. February (3).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles doesn’t want to ever let this go.

Stiles doesn’t want to ever let this go. 

He wants to hold on to how _right_ it feels to wake up next to Lydia Martin, how _right_ it feels to have to scent of her still clinging to his skin. He wants to hold on to the smile she gives him in the morning and the way the rising sunlight glints off of her Mark. He wants to hold on to cooking Lydia Martin an egg in the basket while she sips her coffee at the dining table behind him, her hair still tousled from sex and sleep and more sex.

Stiles doesn’t want to ever let this go, and that’s why when Lydia clears her throat behind him he straightens his back and braces for impact.

“I don’t want a _boyfriend_ ,” She says, her voice low and her vowels dragging out.

Stiles stays facing the range, his eyebrows knitting together. He cracks an egg on the countertop and drops the yolk in the hole he cut in the bread. The albumen runs out a small tear in the side of the crust, sizzling across the pan in a jagged arc.

“I’ve just got a lot going on right now,” Lydia continues. Stiles hears her shift in her chair. He frowns and uses the spatula to push the escaping egg back towards the bread, piling it up in an ugly pile on top of the yolk. “With finishing school and my research and—and stuff.”

Stiles sucks in a small breath and holds it behind his nose. He thinks that maybe he nods a few times. He scrapes the spatula underneath the toast and flips it. The underside has burned around the edges.

“And last night…” She starts and stops. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for exactly three seconds before he opens them again and exhales.

“I don’t have to be your boyfriend,” He says quickly, sliding the egg in the basket onto a blue plate and switching off the range. He turns towards her, trying to keep his face passive. She’s tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. Her empty coffee mug sits on the table next to her. She’s only wearing an overlarge gray sweater and Stiles can _just_ see the hickey he accidentally-on-purpose left on the inside of her thigh and he can’t let her go. He just can’t.

“You don’t?” Lydia asks. Her voice is strangely clipped.

“Look, I get that you don’t want commitment,” Stiles says, sliding his gaze down the curve of her shoulder and crossing his arms over his chest. “And I don’t _need_ that. But we’re—last night, we—we have _fun_ , right?”

“Fun?” Lydia echoes, her eyebrow quirking up slightly.

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, Lydia, you know: fun. Like playing cards, or bowling, or Netflix and—“

“I know what fun is, Stiles,” Lydia smiles. Stiles manages to smile back, then drops his eyes to the counter in front of him.

“All I mean is, I’m not looking for anything and I’d like to keep having fun with you if you’d like to keep having fun with me.”

Lydia purses her lips, her eyes tracing the lines of his torso.

“Can you _do_ casual?” She asks. Her brow is furrowed in the beginning of a frown as she inspects the clutch of his fingers over his bicep.

“I’m a big boy,” Stiles responds simply.

“What if you get hurt?” She asks, an octave lower.

“I’m a big boy,” Stiles repeats, nodding once for emphasis.

Lydia looks him over again, considering. Stiles tries his best to not seem like he’s screaming internally.

An eternity later, Lydia stands and straightens the sweater over her thighs. She straightens her back as though she’s made a decision and walks forward. Stiles stiffens, unsure of what she plans on doing, until she slots herself against him and loops her arms around his waist. He relaxes, all of the tension draining out of him as he stares down at her golden Mark and her green, green eyes focused only on him. One of his hands splays against the small of her back, the other sliding up to tangle in her hair at the back of her neck.

“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” Lydia says playfully, looking pointedly down at the egg in the basket growing more and more cold by the moment.

“What do you want to do instead?” He smiles down.

Lydia inches her hands under the hem of his t-shirt, still damp from last night.

“We could go play cards,” She says, smiling wide. “Or go bowling? Or we could watch Netflix—“

Stiles cuts her off with a kiss, pulling her against him as she lets out a muffled giggle. She tastes like smooth coffee and warmth and _Lydia_ and when she pulls back to lead him towards her bedroom he chases her for just a moment too long.

Stiles doesn’t ever want to let Lydia go, and that’s why he’ll agree to anything she asks of him so long as it ends with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a mini-update than a real update, but there we have it.
> 
> readymachine.tumblr.com


	13. March (1).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants to sit up and kiss his shoulder and tell him good morning.
> 
> She does not want to want these things.
> 
> Instead she rolls onto her back and stretches her arms over her head.

**March (1).**

Stiles likes to  _ touch _ , which isn’t something Lydia is particularly used to but also not something she’d complain about. Jackson was distant for most of their brief relationship and their physical contact was limited to rough groping and clumsy sex. Allison was all gentle touches: a finger trailing up the curve of Lydia’s wrist, brushed lips under her ear when they were half-asleep, a slow hand slipping prettily between loose thighs.

But Stiles is warm and easy with the way he presses her arm against hers when they take the train together, the way he slides his fingers through hers effortlessly when they’re laying in bed, the way he runs a hand through her hair when he hands her a coffee in the morning. It’s strangely comforting, she thinks, as his hand drifts to her knee at 2 in the morning with a cheesy movie on her laptop, that he is so very solid and tangible and wants to be so known to her.

It makes her wonder, more than a few times, why she can’t seem to let herself  _ be _ with Stiles Stilinski. Part of her wants so badly to let him in, to call him her  _ boyfriend _ and build something with him out of soft Sunday mornings and eating junk food at midnight on a weekday.

But.

But she has a  _ plan _ and it never involved anyone but her. But she has been on her own for so long and it’s just  _ easier _ that way. But she still remembers soft Sunday mornings with Allison and eating junk food at midnight on a weekday with Allison and how very, very pale Allison looked in the dark oak coffin that Mr. Argent picked out for her and everything inside of her stills.

So instead she lets him put his ear to her chest at night and kisses him in the dark and fucks him on the couch when Malia isn’t home and hopes that it’s  _ enough _ .

\- - -

Stiles kisses the inside of Lydia’s thigh tenderly, only  _ just _ trailing his teeth over her soft skin. He moves his face slowly to the left, the tip of his nose brushing her clit as he moves to press his lips against the freckle that dots her opposite thigh. She bucks gently against him, softly mewing in a way that causes his dick to pulse. He rewards her by licking a line up the folds of her cunt, pushing a thumb into her as she lifts her hips to press herself further into his mouth. Stiles smiles and moans against her, his free hand pressing against her lower abdomen to keep her still. She makes a sound between a whine and a gasp, squirming against him as he circles her clit with his tongue.

Lydia reaches down and hooks a hand behind his head, twisting her fingers loosely through his hair. She tugs, lifting a knee to make him raise up and pulling her up towards him. He kisses her deeply, freely, the taste of her on his tongue and he is so full of her that it makes him shiver.

He looks at the alarm clock on her bedside table. Four minutes past midnight.

“Lydia,” Stiles whispers against her cheek. He nudges the head of his dick against her wet entrance, slipping in just an inch. He can see her Mark glinting in the dim light from the street. Lydia’s eyes flutter open.

“Stiles,” She pants back, her vowels pitched high.

Stiles thrusts forward, sliding neatly into her and feeling her clench around him. Her mouth drops open into a pretty ‘o’ and Stiles pulls his bottom lip between his teeth to contain the moan that’s built up in his throat. He takes a deep breath to ground himself.

“Happy birthday,” He says, a smile spreading across his face. Lydia laughs brightly, throwing her head back onto the pillow. Stiles presses a kiss against the corner of her jaw and buries his face against her throat. He pulls out out of her slowly, deliberately, before sinking back into her heat.

He wants to tell her that she’s made of starlight, that he can’t stop wanting to touch her or kiss her or hear her laugh or that even if the Marks are bullshit he’s so glad she’s his Match.

Instead, he fucks her until she moans his name and falls asleep with his nose pressed the nape of her neck. Maybe he will tell her another time.

\- - -

Lydia wakes up to the smell of coffee and the weight of Stiles sitting on the bed next to her. She keeps her eyes closed for just a stolen moment. She thinks she wants to exist right here, suspended in this little forever where the world is soft and warm and smells like Stiles’s laundry detergent. But time marches on and she knows that logically she’s going to have to pee eventually so she opens her eyes to face the day.

Stiles has his back resting against her wire headboard, a cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. He takes a large sip, his lips wrapping around the ceramic edge of Lydia’s eggshell blue mug. Lydia traces the square of his jaw, the burst of freckles across his red cheeks, the rectangle of sunlight stretched across the back of his neck.

She wants to sit up and kiss his shoulder and tell him good morning.

She does not want to want these things.

Instead she rolls onto her back and stretches her arms over her head.

“Happy birthday!” Stiles whispers loudly as she stretches. Lydia giggles as she sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with one hand. Stiles pulls another mug off of her nightstand and hands it to her.

“Made you coffee,” He says.

“Thank you,” Lydia responds primly, taking the mug from his hands. She moves to take a drink, but stops when she realizes that he’s handed her a cup of black coffee with a generous dollop of melting vanilla ice cream floating in the middle.

“Stiles, why is there ice cream in my coffee?” She asks.

“‘Cause it’s your birthday and everything is supposed to have ice cream in it on your birthday,” He says nonchalantly. “Also, you’re out of creamer.”

Lydia hides her smile in her mug.

“What’re your plans today, Birthday Girl?” Stiles asks, placing his phone face down on the end table and pivoting his body around to face her. He hasn’t dressed yet and Lydia lets her eyes drift casually down the exposed plane of his chest to the pooled blanket in his lap. She considers having birthday morning sex, but thinks she might not have time. She takes a sip of her vanilla ice cream coffee and immediately hates how much she likes it.

“My mom’s plane is getting in around two,” She replies, sliding her eyes away from Stiles’s long fingers wrapped around the coffee mug and fixating on the calendar hanging above her desk. “She made us reservations at that new sushi place close to the riverfront for tonight at 6 and then she’s going to stay with a friend of hers from college.”

“What, you don’t want your mother staying here tonight?”

Lydia rolls her eyes.

“While I’m sure my mother would be perfectly content staying on the couch, I can’t in good conscience allow her to sleep on any surface I’ve had sex on.”

Stiles laughs, an adorable blush rising to his cheekbones. Lydia feels her heart flutter. She does not like it. She shifts uncomfortably, tucking the comforter more securely around her waist.

“What about you?” She asks, staring down at her mug.

“Band practice later,” He says, glancing at the clock. “That’s it, though.”

Lydia nods, refusing to meet his eyes. She wants him to stay. She wants him to leave. She doesn’t want to want him to stay. She should ask him to go.

“Speaking of, I’ve got to go back to my place to get ready,” Stiles says abruptly.

“Oh,” Lydia responds before she can help herself, her tone too surprised for her liking. “Yeah?”

Stiles nods, standing up and giving Lydia a generous view of his ass while he scans the floor for his boxers. She almost rethinks her previous decision on birthday morning sex. He finds his underwear in a crumpled heap just under the edge of her bed and slides them up and over his thighs. Lydia hides the disappointment she shouldn’t be feeling.

“Yeah, I told Scott I’d meet up with him early to go over some new lyrics,” He says. He shuffles into his pants and runs his hand through his hair, trying to find the shirt he discarded the previous night. Lydia knows the shirt is just inside her closet door. She can even see the sleeve sticking out. But Stiles Stilinski is wearing nothing but a pair of tight red pants and a bruise in the shape of her lips on his hip and she’ll let him search just a little while longer.

“I can’t wait to hear them,” Lydia says with a smile. Stiles barks out a laugh, turning in place as he looks.

“If we can ever book another show,” He mumbles. He finally catches sight of the shirt and tugs it over his head, his hair sticking up wildly in the back and flattening in the front. “Derek used to book most of them for us so we’ve got a learning curve to overcome.”

“It’s just calling and saying ‘hey let us play at your venue,’ right?”

“You’d think it’d be that easy.”

Stiles shrugs his coat on and stands awkwardly at the end of the bed. Lydia wraps the blanket around her form and sits up on her knees to make herself his height. Stiles looks her up and down with a strange expression on his face that makes her heart stutter twice. She thinks of letting the blanket fall and asking him to stay. She clenches her fingers tighter into the fabric to stop herself.

Stiles swoops forward and presses his lips quickly to her shoulder, then her throat, then her cheek. He pedals backwards with a nod, a soft smile across his face. Lydia wants to kiss him properly, messily, softly, but she should not want these things.

“Let me know if you’re free later, okay?” He says. “And let me know how things go with your mom.”

Lydia nods.

“Of course,” She responds. He gives her one last smile, his eyes glowing in the sunlight coming through the windows. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he stops himself before any words come out. Instead, he shakes his head and turns to leave.

“See you later, Birthday Girl,” He calls from the hallway. The front door opens and closes. Lydia is left sitting alone at the end of her bed.

For just a second she lets herself regret letting him leave. For just that one second she lets herself think of how nice it would have been to lay around with him and talk about everything and nothing in the golden sunlight of her birthday morning. She lets herself enjoy, just for that second, the smell of him still sticking to the blanket around her and the tips of her fingers.

The second passes.

Lydia gets out of bed and collects her clothes for the day.

Time marches on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> readymachine.tumblr.com


End file.
